


I MUST NOT TELL LIES

by WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-28
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-21 19:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 53,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo/pseuds/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After Detention With Dolores

_2.45am, Thursday 5th September, 1995._

 

George Weasley crept through the dark corridors of the school. He was practiced at moving with silent invisibility without magic. It was a skill that he and Fred had perfected over the course of the last six years. This was their last year. George knew he was overly sentimental sometimes, but this week everything had taken on a hue of significance. It was their last first week of the school year. Monday morning had been the last time they would be handed a new timetable.

 

Fred had got sick of his mawkish sighing and had finally twisted his twin's mood to suit his purposes.

 

“But George!” he had said, with big eyes and a pout, “This is the last time we'll administer Mrs Norris' annual anti-detection pellet! You don't want to miss that!” Then his voice had hardened: “There's no point in both of us going, we smell pretty much the same and I want to get some sleep.”

 

The twins had developed the pellet in the first year. It inoculated the caretaker's cat against their scent. It was far from fool-proof, but it did mean they got caught a lot less often than they would have done without its contribution.

 

George had grumbled that he was tired, too, but actually he loved roaming the silent, sleeping corridors at night. He ran a hand against the cold stone of the wall. The cat had been drugged and it was time to return to Gryffindor Tower, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep: all his senses were heightened and his nerves were on edge. He considered a trip to the kitchens. The House-Elves were too noisy and too active, though. They wouldn't have suited his mood.

 

“Mimbus mimbletonia,” he sang at the dozing Fat Lady. When she saw who it was she rolled her eyes, but she let him through.

 

Climbing through the portrait hole, George expected to find a Common Room as dark and deserted as the rest of the school. The fire was lit, however, and one desk lamp blazed light onto one desk. Almost hidden behind a pile of books and parchments sat Harry bloody Potter of all people. The Chosen One looked round with a startled expression.

 

“You're up late,” George whispered.

 

“You made me jump!” Harry relaxed. He sat back in his chair and ran both hands through his scruffy hair. “Where have you been?”

 

“Ah, now, Harry, m'boy,” George answered in his most patronising voice, taking the seat beside him, “if I told you that then you'd be bound to mention it to your friends the _Prefects_.” He pinched his face and used a silly, high-pitched voice on the last word.

 

Harry laughed. That was a definite improvement on the strained look he'd been wearing when George had come in.

 

“I'd never squeal on you mate,” Harry promised. “But I won't pry, either.”

 

George picked up some of the books on the desk and squinted at the spines. “Very conscientious,” he murmured. “You do know, though, that the O.W.L.s aren't until the end of the year, don't you?”

 

“Homework,” Harry groaned tiredly, picking up his quill. “I had a detention and got behind.”

 

“Oh, with the charming Ms Umbridge? Yeah, Angelina was jumping up and down about you missing Try-Outs on Friday.”

 

Harry pulled a face. He back to was concentrating on his studies. George had a yen to hear him laugh again, so he added, “But if Dolly Toad-face is so desperate for your company then shouldn't she be finishing off your homework for you?”

 

Harry didn't laugh, he didn't even look up, he just grunted, “She's not so much a toad as a fucking bitch!”

 

George clapped his hands over his ears and assumed a prissy expression. “Goodness me! The Boy Who Swore!”

 

Harry smiled slightly and said, “Fuck off.”

 

He looked exhausted and depressed. His eyes were red at the edges with dark bags under them. He raised a hand to rub at his temple. George only caught a glimpse, but he was certain there was something on it. He grabbed Harry's wrist and Harry tried to pull it away from him.

 

There was a struggle as both boys tugged at Harry's cuff and Harry growled, “I told you to fuck off!”

 

George was older and bigger and stronger. Harry gave in before he would have had to have admitted defeat. George pushed up the sleeve and brought the back of Harry's hand up to his eye-line. He stared at the redness there, gripping the thumb with one hand and the little finger with the other, he twisted his friend's hand slightly to get more light onto it. The marks looked like letters.

 

“What does it say?”

 

Harry muttered, “I must not tell lies.”

 

“Why? How?”

 

“Umbridge has this quill ...”

 

George was transfixed by the damaged skin. “Doesn't it hurt, mate?”

 

“Of course it fucking hurts!” Harry snapped.

 

“She can't do that!” George protested, but he knew how pathetic he sounded even as he said it. The bitch from the Ministry could do just about whatever she wanted.

 

They sat in silence, George holding onto Harry's hand. Gradually he became aware of the warmth between his fingers. He could feel the softness of Harry's palm. The realisation crept up on him that he was holding another boy's hand and that they were alone together in the middle of the night. Something was stopping him from letting go, though.

 

He looked up from Harry's hand to his face. Harry was staring right at him and from the shocked, flushed look on his face it was obvious that he was feeling something similar. They didn't move for a long time. Harry's arm was raised in an awkward position and eventually it began to tremor slightly. Then Harry licked his lower lip and George didn't know why he was doing it, but he dipped his head down to the hurt hand and kissed it.

 

He dropped it quickly onto the desk top and muttered, “Kiss it all better.” He couldn't meet Harry's eye.

 

“George?” Harry asked croakily.

 

George ignored him and hurried away out of the Common Room towards the stairs that lead up to the bedrooms. A few steps up he heard the scritching of a quill which meant that Harry had resumed writing his essay. He kept walking, as quietly as possible, all the time aware of a pull behind him. He could feel the younger boy's presence like a glow. He fought against his legs which wanted to turn round and go back.

 

He stumbled onto his bed and lay on top of the blankets, fully dressed, staring at the canopy until dawn. He didn't know what had got him so rattled but he certainly didn't want to think about it hard enough to find out.


	2. Puking Pastilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR!

“Prissy Prefect Patrolling!” called the small, curly-haired first year sticking her head through the Portrait Hole.

 

The vomiting Gryffindors in the corner of the Common Room all hastily swallowed the antidotes Lee handed out; Fred hid the stopwatches and clipboards; George Vanished the nearly full sick buckets and freshened the air. Hermione entered the room mere seconds after the culprits had all scattered, each picking up some prop to make themselves look innocently occupied.

 

She narrowed her eyes and sniffed suspiciously. She circled the room, finally rounding on Fred and George's sofa. 

 

“I know something's going on,” she said.

 

The twins donned their most innocent expressions.

 

“What makes you think something is going on?” George asked.

 

“Well, you're reading a school book for a start!” she snapped, indicating the copy of _The Practical Uses of Charms_ behind which he was hiding.

 

“Oh, George is always reading that one!” Fred said dismissively.

 

“I've told you what will happen if I find you coercing younger students into trying out your ridiculous products!” 

 

“Which is why we haven't been doing any such thing!” Fred answered as though affronted. They did not need to risk an owl going to their mother.

 

“We're good boys. We always do what prefects tells us to,” George added.

 

Hermione gave them one last long hard stare and stalked away from them to sit by the fire with Harry and Ron.

 

Fred watched her go.

 

“We have got those kids so well drilled!” George murmured smugly.

 

Fred wasn't listening. “I love it when she gets all domineering like that. Really turns me on. She's a hell of a woman!”

 

“You've got an Oedipus Complex,” George replied.

 

“Could be. I like 'em scary. She's a bit lacking in the arse department, though. Unlike Angelina. She's curvy and scary!” He stared appreciatively across the room to where the Quidditch captain stood with her back to him. “You go and distract Alicia so I can chat her up?”

 

“I'm not in the mood.” George's fingertips tingled. 

 

He hadn't been in the mood to chat up girls since that late night conversation with Harry. He had skipped breakfast the next day and he and Harry had avoided each other at lunch. After that things had sort of drifted back to normal. Ron had made a show of himself at the Keeper Try-outs – but luckily not as big  show as the other contenders – and training had begun, being fitted round work for N.E.W.T.s and product trials for Wheezes. 

 

Just occasionally, he thought he caught Harry glancing at him oddly. Sometimes he found himself shooting glances at Harry. In the dead of night, he recalled the feel of Harry's hand in his.

 

George looked away from Fred's resentful face towards the area where they'd been testing the Puking Pastilles. “There are splashes of sick up the wall,” he muttered.

 

“You'd better wander over and Vanish them, then. But be discrete,” his twin suggested.

 

“Why me?”

 

“Vanishing is your responsibility.”

 

“I did the buckets. It's your turn.”

 

“I don't do House Elf stuff. I'm the brains behind this.”

 

George raised his book and waggled it in Fred's face, “I don't think so!”

 

“Ah, no, I have the business brains. You'd never be able to convert your talent into cash. without me.”

 

“It's your turn to do something gross!” George's voice rose steadily. “I was the one with his finger up a cat's arse the other night.”

 

He knew from the grin on Fred's face that he'd been overheard. He twisted his head round and saw Hermione standing behind him, picking up her knitting needles with a very shocked look on her face.

 

Fred chuckled and started to shake his head, muttering about a “... slippery slope ... the old Aberforth kink ... starts with poking about in a cat's bottom, next thing you know, he'll be discovered in the middle of the night in a field full of sheep carrying one welly boot ...”

 

Hermione pushed her face into George's and hissed, “Did you attack Crookshanks?”

 

“I can assure you, Hermione,” George said, deadpanning, “that I have never fingered your pussy.”

 

She drew away from him hastily and retreated, glaring and muttering.

 

Their hands hidden by the sofa back, Fred 'high-fived' George. Lee sauntered over casually, sitting on the other side of Fred.

 

“All OK?” Fred checked.

 

“Yeah she's stopped now. Took three, though. She must be more susceptible or something. I gave her some flat coke, left her in our bedroom.”

 

“Flat what?” George asked.

 

“Muggle stuff. It'll re-hydrate her and settle her stomach.”

 

“We should stock up on that,” Fred mused.

 

“I'll contact Dad,” Lee agreed, but his attention had already been tugged away. “Does Alicia have any idea what that sweater does to me?”

 

“Tell you what, how about I go and distract Angelina so you can swoop in and seduce her?” Fred offered. 

 

“Leanne's on her way over to them,” Lee observed.

 

“Job for George!” Fred pronounced.

 

“Nah, I'll go Vanish the vomit,” George conceded. standing up.

 

“What is wrong with you, man?” Lee demanded. “You'd rather clean off puke than chat up a fit bird?”

 

George didn't reply. He slid his wand surreptitiously down his sleeve as he crossed the room. He pretended to be staring out of the window as he paced up and down the small space, performing the incantation non-verbally.

 

“What some help?”

 

George didn't need to turn round, he knew that voice.

 

“Fine, thanks. Don't want to get you into trouble, Harry.”

 

Harry moved closer, though, took up a position leaning against the window sill, wafting his wand-arm in a natural-seeming way.  George shifted his gaze to the skirting board. The spots of  sick were lifting off and twisting into nothingness.

 

“We should talk,” Harry said quietly.

 

“We do.”

 

“In private. You're constantly glued to Fred.”

 

“I don't keep secrets from Fred.” George fought the blush rising to his skin. That wasn't true any more.

 

“I want to be alone with you,” Harry growled. The deep, quiet voice he used caused George to react in a way he didn't want to.

 

“No,” George snapped. 

 

He turned to move back to Fred and Lee. They were busy with the girls. He felt Harry change position, move closer. He panicked, scanning the room. Leanne was walking towards Alicia, holding a magazine. He moved to intercept.

 

In no time, George was in front of her, leering at her, saying, “Anything good in there?” He glanced at the page she was holding open. “Beauty tips? I'm sure you don't need those. You should be writing those articles, it's cruel to the rest of womankind to keep it secret how you look so good.”

 

As Leanne coyly smirked at the floor, George glanced over to Harry. He looked like he was about to fire off one of those adolescent temper fits he was making a habit of these days.


	3. A Secret Passageway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.

George pressed his palm against the cold stone of the wall. Nowhere else felt like Hogwarts. He would miss it. He would miss all of this sneaking through passageways, too. He and Fred had explored every nook of this place. They knew almost everything about it. That knowledge would be redundant in half a year.

The short-cut between the third floor and the kitchens was low-ceilinged and arched like a tunnel. The only light-source was his wand. Hardly anyone knew about it. He was off to persuade the House Elves to hand over some more sugar for making candy with, after another successful D.A. meeting. 

“George!”

He turned so quickly he cracked his elbow against the wall. His wand went out. He had been sure that he was alone.

A few feet back, in a glow of _Lumos_ , stood Harry. 

“We can talk now,” he said.

George twisted his head round, looking down the passage. “Fred's just up here --” he began.

“Fred's in the Quidditch supply cupboard with Angelina,” Harry corrected.

George turned back and spotted what Harry was holding.

“I wish we'd never given you that bloody map,” he muttered.

Harry took a step forward. George took one back.

“There's nobody within a hundred metre radius,” Harry calmly assured him.

George re-lit his wand. Shadows bounced and wobbled around them. He backed off a few more steps. The problem was that he knew there was a door around here somewhere, a door with a password which he would have to whisper in the keyhole. It would take too long, Harry would catch him. He was scared.

There was an edge of irritation in Harry's voice when he spoke next and George knew how quickly that irritation could turn into an overwhelming, yelling anger these days. “I only want to talk to you!” Harry said.

“Let's talk about Quidditch.” Nice manly subject, Quidditch.

“No.”

“D.A.'s doing well --”

“We can discuss that any time. I've finally caught you on your own and we're going to talk about --”

“Ron!”

“No!” 

Harry swore under his breath and crossed the short distance between them. Dropping his wand and the map, he grabbed George's free hand and held it between his own two hands. George felt that strange tingle again. His heart sped up. His brain closed down. His vision narrowed to those two green eyes looking at him intensely from behind the patches of wand-light reflecting off Harry's glasses. 

“Am I imagining this?” the dark-haired boy asked.

George wanted to ask, 'imagining what?' He wanted to deny that anything strange was happening. He wanted to pretend that he was alone in a dark corridor with someone who was just his baby brother's mate, someone he knew quite well, but wasn't bothered by. 

He couldn't speak; he shook his head.

“What is it?” Harry asked him. “Some kind of magic?”

George tried to pull his hand away, but he was gripped too tight.

“There's so much weird stuff going on at the moment. I wasn't brought up by wizards, there's loads of stuff I don't know. I've never felt this before, though. It's not normal. I don't get it.”

“What are you feeling?” George managed.

“It's like an excitement, an energy, like little sparks of electricity or power or something. It doesn't make sense. It only happens when I touch you.” He moved one of his hands away from George's hand, rested the palm against George's cheek. “There! See! Now my mouth's gone dry. There's a sort of throbbing behind my eyes. My tummy feels funny.”

George tried to pull back. Harry wouldn't let him. His fingers gripped his jaw.

“Look, if you feel ill when you're touching me then perhaps you should stop!” George sounded more snappy than he had meant to.

“But I like it,” Harry protested. “You said you could feel it. Can't you feel it?”

“I can,” George conceded with a sigh. 

He'd been trying to hide from his feelings himself, but Harry was more innocent than he would have thought possible. It made it all so much worse.

Harry lowered his eyes to the floor. He stroked the back of George's hand with his fingertips. George couldn't believe that he didn't know what he was doing. 

Very quietly he said, “It's almost like ... well, it's ... I expected to feel like this when I kissed Cho. But I didn't.”

So, Harry did know what sort of magic they were dealing with. 

“When you look at me?” George asked. He knew how he felt when he looked at Harry.

“I want to look at you all the time. I like the way you look. It distracts me.” Harry raised his eyes to George's face. 

George broke eye contact after a silent minute.

“Look, you're a kid,” he said. “And clearly we're both boys. It some kind of adolescent phase or something. Or maybe we're just reacting to the pressure. There's a lot going on.”

“You are feeling it too, then?” Harry checked.

George wrenched himself free and walked backwards until he hit the little wooden door.

“It doesn't matter. It can't matter. It doesn't mean anything. What are you, fifteen, sixteen? I'm not a pervert. Nothing's going to happen. You should stay away from me, though. It'll make it easier.”

“I don't like staying away from you,” Harry growled. “It hurts. It's cold. I don't know, it just doesn't feel good.”

George was overwhelmed by sensations he didn't want to acknowledge. It scared him. It was all wrong. This was a boy, a child, an innocent. He couldn't feel this. It would pass.

“Just keep away from me, kid,” he ordered. 

He turned round, knelt down and whispered the password into the keyhole. As he waited for the clunking sound which would mean he could open the door, he felt Harry coming closer. A strange radiation hit his skin before the boy even touched him. Then the simple hand on his shoulder became the centre of the universe.

Harry's voice was choked like tears. “I just wondered. Well, if I ... if I kissed you, then would it feel --?”

George sprang to his feet, pushed Harry out of his way and ran back down the corridor as fast as he could.


	4. Lifetime Match Ban

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR!

Harry didn't approach George again. Any time he was alone, George half-expected a short, dark-haired figure to appear behind him. He never did. George was relieved and regretful in equal parts. He threw himself into work for the shop, concentrated on developing new lines and on finding new ways to get away with testing them on First Years.

There were no more conversations about how it felt to hold hands. There were glances, though, and reactions, dreams, thoughts, and a lot of avoiding each other. There were moments, too. They brushed against each other in a doorway; George landed at Harry's feet after a Floo journey; Harry walked into the toilets at the Hog's Head when George was in there.

George had moped and sulked and day-dreamed. Eventually, Fred had caught him lying on his bed gazing up at nothing one too many times.

“Right! I've had enough,” Fred had said. “Either snap out of it, or I'm going to start asking you what's wrong and offering to listen to you whining about it. Now, I know I'm not a fucking a girl, and I didn't think you were one either, but if we have to go all Disney and do 'talking things through', then I'm prepared to put up with it, if that's the only way to stop all this miserable poncing about.”

George was horrified. He had never had a conversation about emotions with any of his brothers. Ever. It was exactly the kick up the arse he needed. With a threat like that hanging over him it became a lot easier to paste a smile on his face and concentrate on the immediate and practical. He found that if he didn't think about things then they bothered him less.

If he stopped constantly questioning his sexuality, then it wasn't an issue, was it? He didn't think about girl or boys, so he didn't have to choose which to fancy. He stopped trying to tot up how long it would take for a two-year age gap to stop mattering. Nothing mattered, after all, just candy and creams and fancies with special extra ingredients.

He jumped straight out of bed every morning and dressed and got on with the homework he'd forgotten the night before. The dreams dissipated that way. That was particularly useful with the recurrent one where a certain face came closer, lids closing behind his glasses, his lips ...

George wasn't going to think about that, though.

Then there was the fight at the match against Slytherin. That slimy Malfoy wanker got the twins and Harry so worked up they couldn't think of anything except hitting him. Hard. Bitch Umbridge banned them from playing Quidditch for life.

Which was why the three of them ended up in the stands watching their team-mates practice. It was a dark, damp, cold evening and there was nothing happening on the pitch to warm their hearts much.

“C-c-call themselves B-b-eaters?” Fred complained, through chattering teeth. He didn't have the heart to finish the sentiment though.

“We're doomed!” George wailed dramatically.

Harry laughed. It was the first time Harry had laughed at anything George had said in a long time. It made George's chest warm up and he started to smile. Then he stopped himself.

Fred jumped up and down with his arms wrapped round himself.

“Right! That's it!” he announced. “I'm going to run round the pitch before my blood freezes solid!”

He shot down the terraces and leaped over the barrier and off across the grass. There was a moment, a brief one, where George could reasonably have followed him. After all, the twins were expected to do everything together. He didn't go. He sat down. Harry looked at him. He looked at Harry. Harry looked at the sky above the pitch. George looked at his feet. He looked up. Harry was looking at him.

“Sit down,” George offered.

Harry shrugged and sat down next to him. They both stared out at the rest of the team without seeing their set-plays. George's hips seemed to shuffle of their own accord. He was nearly touching Harry. His head fuzzed.

“S'cold,” he said. He didn't know if it was an excuse, an invitation or a neutral observation.

Harry nodded and very slowly, very slightly, ever so gradually, he leaned. George's heart-beat got faster and louder. Harry's shoulder pressed against George's upper arm. George's nerve-endings reacted with such voltage that he nearly pulled away. But he didn't. He looked at Harry. Harry was looking at him. They both turned sharply back to the pitch.

“How old are you now?” George asked.

“Doesn't matter,” Harry answered.

He was watching something on the far side of the pitch. When George followed his gaze, he saw that it was Fred. He was a long way away. Ginny looped high above them, scouting for the snitch. Angelina was trying to explain something to Ron. No-one looked over at the stands where something was hanging in the air, waiting to be said. The two boys sat in silence.

For another half an hour they sat. They shifted slightly, shuffled occasionally and somehow ended up closer together. Without looking directly at the younger boy, George could see a flush rising under his jaw. He could feel the blood in his own face. Although his hands and feet were still freezing, there was a burning up his arm and along his thigh where their bodies made contact.

His breathing was shallow and sometimes jagged. Harry's hand lay on his own knee, the white scars clear against his olive skin. George didn't reach for it. He didn't hold it in his own. He didn't kiss it better. He swallowed hard.

Then training ended. Fred bounced back towards them as the team sloped off to change. George sprang to his feet and raced down to join his twin. The two of them strolled back to the castle together. They discussed what they were going to have to do about Ron.

All the way back, George was aware of a presence like white noise, just a few feet behind them, just a little to the left of them.


	5. Bed Curtains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR!

George couldn't sleep. He could hear Lee turning pages and Fred farting in his sleep. Within the curtains of his bed it was utterly dark. He was tired. But he couldn't sleep.

What had happened out in the Quidditch stands this evening? Was it normal? Was he normal? What was normal anyway?

He tried to think about something else, anything else. N.E.W.T.s. Wheezes. Voldemort. The Wyrd Sisters. Instant Swamps. Anything but that boy. Anything could send him to sleep if he just avoided thinking about that scruffy-headed, under-nourished, impetuous, speccy, ignorant, foul-tempered, scar-headed, beautiful boy.

He couldn't. His thoughts slid like fried eggs down the wall of any subject he gave them, landing solidly on the floor of Potter. Was Harry his floor? His base? His foundation? Stupid late night, half-asleep metaphors.

So George tried to think of Harry the way he had once done, the way with no sex in it. He brought forth the mental picture of that confused little urchin he'd seen at King's Cross, recalled how he'd become his baby brother's partner in mischief. They'd been plucky scamps in First Year – only slightly held back by the brown-haired, buck-toothed goody-goody girl who had started to hang around with them. By the summer holidays they'd been heroes.

So George thought about the public perception, the tragic hero, The Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. He couldn't quite get his head round that one. He knew what Harry had done. He believed him. It was just that he couldn't picture him actually doing battle against the Most Evil Wizard of All Time. He'd beaten him at Exploding Snap, after all. He'd watched the lad eat treacle tart.

There were hints at his Greatness, though. Most came in the D.A. meetings. They'd never had a Defence teacher who'd commanded as much Magic as Harry did. Harry clearly modelled his teaching style on Lupin, the best teacher they'd had. His natural ease of wand-craft, though, surpassed anything even Lupin could manage. The boy had no idea how special he was.

He tried to distract himself with memories of Lupin. That was a promising tangent down which to travel. A Marauder, a member of the Order, the man was a werewolf for Salazar's sake!

It was all no good. He kept thinking about a warm body and a dark head leaning against him while their team-mates trained. That's how it would feel to lie next to each other. The touch of their clothed thighs had sent some thrill through him, something he had never felt before. It was a mixture of the way he had felt as a child when his mother had held him; the silent excitement of the start of an adventure or prank; the replete, relaxed feeling of being alone with Fred after a huge meal and not having to speak; and the arousal he got from looking at Lee's mucky mags.

Lee was snoring now. George was the only person in the room still awake. 

He was disgusted with himself for feeling like this. It was bad. Wasn't it? Was it? How would he feel if, say, Lee was having dirty thoughts about Ron? He felt the edge of an anger that would have flared if that had been really happening. That was only because Ron was his little brother, though. Ah, but Harry didn't have any relations to protect him. That's why he and Fred had tried to stand in. They'd widened their definition of family because their brother's best mate needed big brothers, too.

So this was like him fancying Ron, then. That was worse. It was sick like fantasising about Ginny would have been sick. She still had pigtails and teddy bears as far as George was concerned. She would never be an adult to him. Ron, neither really. He could imagine having a beer with Ron, though, in a couple of years time. Not Ginny. It felt wrong that she was even in the D.A.

And Harry? Harry was a kid, too. He wasn't sixteen yet. Nearly though. Did that make it OK? In a few months time, would that birthday make everything all right? Or when George was sixty and Harry was fifty-seven, would it still be perverted for George to want him? Because he'd known him when he was eleven and lost and lonely and scared?

Want him? What did that mean? What exactly did George want from Harry? Harry had suggested a kiss. Was that just lip-to-lip? Would there be tongues? Harry's tongue, the one he ate treacle tart with, displayed itself in George's mind. It was wetting the skin on the inside of George's wrist. It was working its way up his thumb. Harry's mouth sucked in George's finger. It wasn't a finger any more. George was looking down onto the top of Harry's head. They were in the Quidditch stands, but it was sunny. George's hand slid down, into his pyjama trousers, he gripped his semi-solid shaft.

No! He wasn't going to wank off to visions of a young boy! He was not a pervert! He had to get out of the foetid cocoon inside his bed curtains. He stilled his stroking hand. He needed cold stone.

Silently, he slipped out of bed and snuck out of the room. There was more light on the stairs. He pressed himself against the wall, calmed down, tried to decide where he was going.

The kitchen was the obvious one. He wasn't hungry but there was a thrill to stealing food. Even the House Elves would be asleep at this time. He could actually do some thieving instead of having the contents of the larder thrust upon him.

Or he could just wander the corridors and avoid Filch. That was a game in itself. He needed to set himself a challenge before he started. Defacing something? Getting as far as the Pumpkin patch? Retrieving something from Filch's own office?

Or Umbridge's? Ah, yes. The uber-bitch was the greatest challenge, the biggest risk. He hated her for a lot of reasons. Still, above all the rest, it was because she had hurt his Harry.

Shit! Back to Harry. All thought-processes had one inevitable journey's end on these nights.

He sighed and started creeping down the stairs. He had homework to do. That might actually give him something to fill his brain up. Wasn't he supposed to be panicking about revision round about now? He kept close to the wall, kept the cold of the stone against his bare feet, the skirting board scraping against his ankle. It was something immediate to focus on.

He made it past the Fifth Years' door with only the briefest consideration of the boys sleeping in that room. He didn't care which way any of them lay, whether their faces were pressed into their pillows, how high up they pulled their blankets.

He was nearly at the common room. He could turn a light on there, banish his night-thoughts.

There was already a light. The fire was also blazing. Somehow George knew who was there, who else couldn't sleep. And there it was, the tell-tale mop of dark hair showing over the back of the armchair. 

Harry turned round as George walked into the room. Their eyes met.

They froze. They were both instantly conscious that they were alone and that it was the middle of the night. They were even in the same room where they had been before. Harry started to rise to his feet and the movement set George going. He was unaware of his feet moving but he knew they had stopped when he stood in front of the other boy.

There was a moment of awkwardness then. The two teenagers stared at each other. Neither spoke. Harry frowned and it made two little furrows in his forehead, just above his nose. His eyes scanned down George's face to his lips. 

'Don't kiss me', George thought, 'Please don't kiss me or I'll come undone. I'll be lost to myself if you kiss me. It would destroy me.'

George leaned forward and laid his lips on Harry's. 


	6. The Common Room At Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.
> 
>  **Warning:** Some snogging. Finally!

Harry hadn't even gone to bed. The proximity to George in the Quidditch stands had left him so charged that he had spent hours just staring into the fire. He had barely noticed the Common Room emptying. When Ron and Hermione had returned from Prefect Patrol to find him in exactly the same spot with the same intense expression as when they had left him, they had been worried. So pre-occupied was he, however, that he hardly noticed their attempts to jolly him along.

He sat by the fire because he wanted to see Sirius. He needed to talk things through with someone. Sirius was often the best person for that. He vacillated all night between the desire for that conversation and the fear of it. Was this something he could share with his Godfather? Could he possibly understand? He didn't expect disgust or rejection, but maybe Sirius would rather not know. He saw Harry as being just like James. Harry didn't know enough about his father or his Godfather to predict the reaction to a confession about this.

About what? What was it exactly? This feeling? He thought he knew, but couldn't be sure, and wished George would stop running away so they could work this out together. If George felt anything. Perhaps this was some silly one-sided schoolboy crush. Perhaps he would grow out of it.

He didn't think so.

He had started to doze when he heard the footsteps behind him. He knew who it was. He had the sort of electrical headache he got before a storm. His scalp tingled. 

George strode over to him. It seemed to Harry that he was full of controlled power and his face was frozen in an angelic, determined vision. Then he wavered. Harry was beyond thought. He was terrified of doing the wrong thing, of scaring George off again. He was also numbed by desire without being sure of what it was he wanted.

George kissed him; his body melted. Now this was what he'd thought a kiss should be like! It was nothing like the hollow coldness of his kiss with Cho. It took him a moment to gather himself enough to kiss back. George's hands were gripping his head, holding him in place. He didn't need to, Harry never wanted to be anywhere else.

His hands reached forward. He touched George's pyjama shirt. His fingertips tingled and his chest ached. One hand bunched fabric into a fist. His other rested on George's naked waist. Then, just when Harry thought he was the luckiest boy alive, George broke away from him.

“No!” the redhead gasped – his face flushed crimson.

He looked behind him at the stairs from the boys' bedrooms, then sharply over Harry's shoulder to the girls' stairs and then swiftly checked the portrait hole.

Harry took hold of the hands were gliding away from him. George was just scared of getting caught. Murmuring reassurances, Harry lead George into the far corner, onto the infamous settee. It was high-backed and the students kept it in a dark corner, facing the wall, so that couples could have some privacy when the Common Room was full.

George had been here before. With Katie. Fred and Lee had cat-called and pelted them with wet spiders. George tried not to compare Harry with Katie. Even without the audience, he didn't think Katie would have excited him this much.

Harry hadn't been there. He'd watched couples disappear, though. Only last month, Lavender had dragged Dean over and he'd wondered what they were up to. Only Seamus had had the nerve to actually spy on them. He had then tormented Dean in the dorm by describing how the two of them had been wrapped round each other, their faces welded together.

Dean had hexed rabbit ears onto him in retaliation, but hadn't been able to hide his smug grin.

Harry wanted to wrap himself round George, to weld their mouths together. Shyly, he let go of one of George's hands and touched his face. He ran a finger across one ginger eyebrow, down a freckled cheekbone, dipped into the soft hollow of a cheek, then, feeling very daring, he touched George's lower lip.

George closed his eyes and moaned lightly. What was wrong with him? This was his last chance to break away, to stop something from happening. The tingle of Harry's touch was irresistible, though.

He forced his eyes open. Harry was staring at him intensely. It was all so familiar. It was all too much like the dreams he kept having. George gently removed Harry's glasses so he could see those intense green eyes better. Harry blinked hard. His lower lids crinkled, smoothing out as George got closer. Then George couldn't focus any more. He was too close. Their mouths were touching again.

Harry held onto George's jaw tight. He wasn't going to let him break away again. This was a kiss which could not be undone. George made a light, keening sound as he pushed closer and closer. Harry found himself falling slowly backwards against the hard, high back of the settee. They were chest-to-chest.

George started to stroke his palms down Harry's arms. He met the harsh texture of School Robes. He wanted the softness of skin. He wanted to take off the robes. Not naked, not yet, just some contact.

Not naked yet? What was he thinking? Had he abandoned all attempts at virtue? Was this him giving in?

Well, in for a penny ...

Very slightly, he parted his lips. Harry's panting stilled for a moment. Then he took another breath and his mouth followed George's lead. He had every intention of going slowly, of giving his young partner time to adjust to each stage, the opportunity to object. His body took over, though. It had waited so long and so patiently, with only dreams to nag him with. Now things were going the way it wanted and it wasn't going to wait any longer.

In a blind haze of lust, George realised that his tongue was inside Harry's mouth. It was thrusting and exploring. And Harry's tongue was doing the same. Their hands were pulling and gripping everywhere. Their breath was short, loud, wet. He was as hard as he'd ever been in his life and just a bit afraid of what he might end up doing about that.

With a wrench, he separated their mouths, twisting out of Harry's grip.

“No!” Harry gasped.

George didn't let go of him, though. He didn't run away. He just said, “Need a moment.” 

He wrapped his arm round Harry's shoulders and they snuggled back together. Harry was wondering whether they should talk now, make plans maybe. George kissed him lightly on the cheek before pointing towards the window. It was just a little less bright than it had been.

“Back to bed?” Harry's voice was heavy with disappointment.

“Not yet. Soon.” George's eyes flickered over Harry's face. “Tomorrow night. Here again?”

Harry nodded. George pulled him close for one more long, lingering passionate kiss before they both snuck back to bed.


	7. Percy's Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've taken so long to update this. I snapped a ligament in my back and it has affected my abilities to both sit and think. Any drop in quality can be attributed to my back trouble – though it's a lot better than it was a week ago.

Harry lay in the dark of the dorm, listening and waiting. Neville was snoring. Ron was still stomping about, muttering the names of constellations to himself in an attempt to learn them for a test the next day. Dean hadn't even made it up the stairs yet.

The invisibility cloak was scrunched between Harry's clenched fingers. He fiddled with the soft, fluid stuff, not able to keep still. His stomach squirmed with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. His toes clenched and unclenched.

He had spent the day trying to damp down his grin. The best thing was that he knew George had been doing the same. Half-way through lunch, they had had to stop looking at each other, because every time they did, their faces betrayed them. Harry had concentrated hard on his potato salad, picking out every piece of onion and sliding it up onto the lip of the plate. He had had to cram his mouth with a whole tomato, though, to keep it straight, when he overheard Fred:

“You're in a better mood, then.”

“Am I?” George asked.

“You know you are. You've had PMS for months.”

“Not me. I'm an eternally joy-ridden clown.”

Harry had heard Fred guffaw and Lee's deep voice had joined him.

“So, what happened. You get your end away or something?” Lee asked.

Harry's throat had constricted a bit then. He'd had to chop his ham smaller and smaller to avoid putting it in his mouth and attempting a swallow.

“You know how it is,” George had answered. Harry couldn't believe he sounded so calm. “My right hand finally forgave me.”

There was more laughter, then Lee accused, “You nick my mags again?”

Harry didn't hear the reply, because Hermione started nagging him about not playing with his food and, when she'd finished, Ron asked him when they were getting tested on the star map. By the time Ron had stopped panicking and Hermione had stopped berating them both for leaving things until the last minute, the twins had gone.

Dean was in the bathroom, now. Ron's bed curtains had swished closed.

At the start of the DA meeting, Harry had had trouble concentrating. Luckily George had slipped behind a pillar during the demonstration to the group. He must have known that he was affecting Harry's focus. Still, Harry had been aware of him, the way you can be aware of a warmth or a light without needing to see it. He'd had a new happy memory to use, though, when he cast his _Patronus_ and the galloping stag had been as clear and strong as he had ever produced.

Dean's wet feet padded across the stone floor. He stopped at Seamus' bed and asked to borrow a book. Seamus' reply was thick-voiced and cross. That was good. He had been asleep and would soon be asleep again.

Harry closed his eyes and touched his lips, trying to summon the texture of George's lips against his own. He had spent months trying to imagine kissing George. He had spent at least as much of that time trying to stop himself from imagining it, too. Ever since their hands had touched that on night at the start of the year when they had been alone together in the middle of the night. And tonight they would be alone together again. And they would touch again. And they would kiss again. Harry clenched his teeth to stop the gleeful cry in his throat.

Ron's deep, snorting snores mingled with Neville's familiar higher pitched ones.

Nobody had ever talked to Harry about the 'facts of life'. It was probably something a parent would do. He couldn't picture Vernon having that discussion with Dudley. Perhaps he had, perhaps he had mastered his embarrassment and charged into Dudley's room one evening, turned off the Game Cube and the stereo and delivered a lecture about wet dreams, body odour, acne and shaving. He might have thrust a leaflet at him. Maybe. But he certainly hadn't bothered with Harry.

And who else was there? Someone like Hermione might be able to learn everything from books, Ron had all those brothers to eavesdrop on and Dean was always referring to things he'd found out through TV programs. Harry wasn't even sure what it was that he didn't know. He'd bluffed his way through enough 'laddish' chats further down the school, to have a vague idea about what sex was. That was all.

He could have asked someone. Probably. After all, Ron's family had absorbed him. He had thought about it, years ago, about explaining to an older Weasley that he didn't know, that nobody had told him anything. But who? Arthur was the obvious choice. Harry hadn't really spent that much time with him, though. The opportunity to be alone with him had never arisen. He spent a lot more time at Hogwarts than he did at The Burrow.

Percy would have loved to have been asked. He would have been so pompous though, would have taken it all so seriously. Fred would not have taken it seriously enough. He would probably have fed him some misinformation for a laugh. It was strange but, years ago, Harry had decided that George was his best option. He'd just never had enough bravery to approach him. Failure of Gryffindor Spirit. Now, ironically, Harry hoped, George would be giving him a practical demonstration. His cock twitched at the thought and he drew up his knees.

Now even Dean was snuffling the way he did when he slept. Harry thought it was nearly time to go.

Harry didn't know much, but he did know that boys danced with girls, that men married women. He knew Uncle Vernon's opinion of 'nancy boys' and Petunia's fears about 'perverts'. He also knew, though, that there were parts of London where same-sex couples walked happily arm-in-arm, accepted by the other Londoners. He'd been there and seen it. He didn't know about wizards, though. He didn't know what people here would think.

George's reluctance made him suspect that the Wizarding World was a reactionary one. The fact that he had been forced to invite a girl to the Yule Ball last year, that Wizards had traditional attitudes to everything else and that he had never met an openly gay magic couple all suggested the same thing.

Harry slipped the cloak over his head, confident that he was the only Gryffindor boy in his year who was still awake. George had, finally, changed his mind, had kissed him. He was, hopefully, about to kiss him again. His breath stopped. What if George had got cold feet again? What if he wasn't waiting for him in the common room? Harry pulled in a calming lung-ful of air. He gathered up his courage and got out of bed.

George wasn't waiting in the common room. He was standing outside the bedroom door, leaning against the opposite wall. He peered, confused, at the closing door. Harry slipped the cloak off his face. He grinned at George, enjoying his surprised, pleased look. He crept across the landing, opening his cloak and sweeping it over them both.

George's hands slipped comfortably round his waist. Their chests pressed together. Harry's arms were wrapped across George's broad shoulders, holding the cloak together. Their faces drifted, naturally, onto each other. He could feel hot puffs of air panting out of George's nostrils onto his cheek. Their mouths were hot and moist and soon they were open. Harry flicked his tongue into the other boy's mouth. Instead of responding, though, George made a grunt in the back of his throat and pulled away.

Harry panicked. Had he moved to quick? Had George changed his mind again? Then there was a breathy whispering against his sensitive earlobe.

“Found a better place for this!”

Harry relaxed. George turned and lead the way, Harry still hugging the cloak onto him, his face happily pushed against the worn cotton of the pyjamas across his back. They walked up the stairs, away from the common room. Harry didn't question. He trusted.

Right at the top of the stairs was a door and George stopped there. Harry wondered whether it lead out onto the roof. George got a muggle lady's hairclip out of his pocket and wiggled it into the lock. When he saw his own disembodied hand floating free of the cloak, he gave a delighted chuckle which reverberated through Harry's jaw.

Harry smiled and pressed a kiss to George's shoulder. George groaned.

“Don't, I ... tricky enough to concentrate with you so close,” he whispered.

The tense stillness seemed to last for ages, Harry keeping still and silent while George listened and made tiny adjustments. Then he relaxed, tapped the door with his wand, whispered, “Alohomora,” and turned the doorknob.

As soon as they were inside, they threw off the cloak, and George slammed Harry against the shutting door. They kissed long and slow, their bodies squirming against each other, hands stroking gently. Something hard pressed against Harry's belly. He thought he knew what it was. He was completely erect, too.

As they broke for air they both said, “All day I've been ...” at the same time. They laughed. They didn't need to complete the sentence. They had both been thinking about the same thing for hours.

Harry looked past George's arm. They were in a bedroom. It was sparse and impersonal: just one single bed, one desk and one chair. The view from the small, high window was of roof tiles.

“Where is this?” Harry asked.

He walked over to the bed and sat on it, hoping that George would sit next to him. George looked uncomfortable.

As he answered, he walked over to the hard chair by the desk and sat on that. His tone was light, though, happy: “When Percy (may his fingernails fall off) was Head Boy he had this room,” he started. “It's some Hufflepuff this year, though.” Everyone knew the position should have been Cedric's. It had been some sort of sympathy gesture to give it to a boy in his House. “I thought it might have been one of those spells that moves a room around. But I came up and had a look. There must be one of these in each House. No, two. One for the girls, too.”

Harry nodded. His Dad had been Head Boy. This same room would have been one of his privileges. A room of one's own. He felt a bit weird then, like his Dad was going to watch him making out with a boy. He wondered what his reaction would have been. Then Harry had an even less welcome thought. He had a sickening image of his Mum sitting here on this bed, of her patting the mattress beside her, of his Dad walking over from that self-same chair where George was sitting, of them kissing, hugging, lying down ...

He patted the mattress beside him. George looked uncertain. The bed seemed to scare him. So Harry went to him. He held his shoulders, felt the muscle under the thin material, sat down on George's lap. All the while, he was watching George's reactions, trying to judge whether he was doing the right thing.

Obviously he was, because George took tight hold of him and kissed him again. This time, when they stopped kissing, they took a quick breath and went straight in to another kiss.


	8. Kings Cross Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

As he pulled it down from the overhead shelf, Harry's trunk smacked into his shoulder. He barely registered the pain. Nor was he aware of his fellow travellers, of the rattle of the tracks nor the sound of their chatter, of the smells of food, of his own hunger, of the buildings speeding past the window – getting gradually larger and dirtier as they neared London. There was only Sirius in his head and acidic guilt in his gut.

He was jostled out of the carriage at King's Cross and rode the crowd without directing his own feet. There were people. Some of them were waiting to see him. Only one of them managed to arouse any emotion in him. A grim fury bared its teeth in his chest, but he was largely numb to it. It was like seeing a fire which burned fiercely but a long way away.

He stood with his twin, the two of them in their ridiculous matching dragon-skin suits and when it was his turn to slap Harry on the back, he also clasped his hand. Harry felt sharp paper edges in his palm and pushed the note into his pocket without curiosity. He was reminded only of the sharp, real sensation of closing his fist round the shards of mirror. He longed for the physical contact with something which Sirius had given him, and for the pain that could cut through this dull fog. He craved the hot drip of his own blood.

For weeks, he and George had met every night in that little room which had once been James' and had once been Percy's. They had avoided the bed, but often ended up lying on the floor together – Harry's hands exploring George's body through his nightclothes, George gripping Harry tightly to him. They had kissed passionately, but no more.

During the day they had avoided each other until, surprisingly, George had offered to provide a distraction so Harry could use Umbridge's fire to contact Sirius. Had he known even then? Had the plan been fully formed, cooked up with his real partner, his twin?

On that last night, Harry had been distracted by images he had witnessed of the schooldays of his parents and Snape, and troubled by his connection with Voldemort. George had been at his most attentive. Gently, he had caressed Harry's face; he had stared into his eyes. He hadn't said. He definitely knew then that it was their last night together. Harry found out when the two brooms lifted up into the firework-filled sky and Peeves saluted. Not until then. Not until the rest of the school knew too.

There had been no contact since. No owl. Nothing. Even after Sirius had died. Not until that scrap of parchment had been passed to him secretly at the station. In that time Harry's whole world had changed. It had lost colour. It had sunk. 

It was not until bed-time, in the bathroom at Privet Drive, when he put his clothes in the laundry basket, that Harry read the note. He crossed the landing to his little room, glancing dispassionately at the words. It was an address on Diagon Alley and a Floo number. Harry's name was at the top, George's at the bottom. That was it. He scrunched it up and threw it into his trunk.

Days later he picked it up again and traced the inky lines with his finger. His hand remembered the tingle of George's touch. Disgusted with himself, he hurled it across the room. He wasn't sure why he didn't burn it.

The third time he read it he noticed all the patches of roughened paper where something had been written and then obliterated. He wished he knew a spell to bring the ink back, then remembered that he wouldn't have been allowed to use it in the holidays anyway. Was he imagining the more rounded warmth to the letters in his name? The curled corner of the sheet that looked as though it had been gripped too tight by someone who was too tense?

Finally, he wrote a date, a time and the address of a Muggle park in Surrey on a piece of paper which came on and off Hedwig's leg for nearly a week. Then he whispered her the address and she flew off. He folded the parchment carefully and put it back in his top pocket.


	9. In The Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

Harry couldn't make his mind up whether he would go. He didn't expect George would go. He wasn't going. George wouldn't be there anyway. He was just hanging round the Dursley's house being insulted, he might as well go. He was out of the house, but that didn't mean he had to go to the park. He might go back to the churchyard, pretend one of the graves was Sirius' again. He did want to know whether George had turned up or not. Only he hated him so he wasn't going to talk to him. Just to satisfy his curiosity. As he was nearly there now anyway.

 

He turned the corner, looked into the park, saw him, his heart stopped.

 

George had come disguised as a Muggle, and no other wizard could have pulled it off quite like George had. His jeans were tight and slashed at the thigh, his leather jacket was just the right amount of weather-beaten, the white T-shirt underneath was cut like Marlon Brando's in On the Waterfront. The sneakers were the trendiest and his hair was gelled like a model's.

 

Harry felt dowdy, in his overlarge, faded clothes. The transfer on his top had once depicted the funniest thing of two years ago but was peeling and cracked. His hair was untidy, without being wild. He didn't look like somebody who could possibly pair up with George.

 

He was even smoking. Harry thought cigarettes were disgusting, pointless and noxious – but George made it look cool. The way he dragged down the smoke was almost obscenely sexual. He was leaning against the frame of what had once been a swing set. It had been vandalised and never repaired, was now just a metal folly of chipped red paint and graffiti. A gaggle of teenaged girls circled him.

 

George hadn't seen Harry yet. Harry still had time to run away. His feet walked him over the patchy grass and cement. When George noticed him, his smile was hesitant, and Harry realised that George wasn't just innately cool. He was trying really hard.

 

It gave Harry confidence. He was the one who hadn't bothered. George had dressed up to see him, he hadn't even considered it.

 

The girls sneered as Harry approached. But George straightened up and walked towards him. They both stopped, awkward, with a couple of feet still between them.

 

“Beginning to think I'd been stood up,” George said with a smile. Harry didn't return the smile. More seriously, George said, “Glad you came.”

 

Harry shot a glance at the girls. They were watching them intently. Harry had a mad urge to snog George here, in front of them all. He wanted to see their faces.

 

Instead, his face a blank mask, he asked, “Shall we walk?”

 

George nodded. He looked disappointed, or sullen or something now.

 

They walked across the play park and into the formal, flower-bedded area, keeping that gap between them, in silence. Harry spotted a bench behind the keeper's shed. He sat down at one end. Cautiously, George sat at the other.

 

George licked his lips, swallowed, rubbed his hands over his face and then, croakily, began to speak: “I'm sorry. It seemed like the right thing. I was wrong. I should have said and then after ... How are you? Sirius. I'm sorry about ... I wish it hadn't ... you must be ...”

 

Harry didn't want George to talk about Sirius. He didn't deserve to have that name in his mouth.

 

“When did you decide? To go?”

 

“Late on. Really. We'd just about finished the swamp and Fred said, 'You realise we can't stay after this?' That's when I should have told you, I know. But it seemed to be the best thing. A clean break. I didn't think we could go on like that.”

 

“You could have owled.”

 

“So could you.”

 

“I didn't know how things were. You left me.”

 

George stared at his expensive shoes. He twisted one finger round. He said, “It was s'posed to stop it. For both of us. I thought if we didn't see each other it would ... die.”

 

“You got over me?”

 

“No. Didn't work. I missed you like shit, like it hurt. It did hurt. Does hurt. I want to touch you --”

 

“I didn't miss you! I got over you! I didn't even ...” but Harry's voice choked with sobs. “I've had much bigger problems than ...” He gulped, tried to suck back in that one tear sliding down his cheek. He dragged his knuckles over it, furious at its betrayal.

 

George kept his gaze on the ground. “Forgive me?” he whispered.

 

They sat in silence, each nursing their own thoughts.

 

“Then what?” Harry asked eventually.

 

“I want to – would like to be ... alone with you. Like we were ...”

 

It had been nice, Harry thought. He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of George's arms and mouth. He wanted it.

 

“Only this time,” George was saying, “I don't care who knows. I'm proud that you chose me. I want to tell everyone. And I don't give a fuck what they think, I --”

 

Harry's horror-struck features stopped him in his tracks.

 

“Or not. Whatever you like ...” George trailed off.

 

“It's not that I'm ashamed that it's you.” Harry wanted to soothe that devastation from the face he adored. “It's just, I've got enough. Look, here, boys get beaten up and I get enough of that. And at school? I can't even remember a time when I've walked into that whole and they haven't been staring at me, pointing, talking about me. I could do with a break! The Daily Prophet would come out with some crappy pun like, I don't know, The Poof Who Lived --”

 

“Yeah. I get it.”

 

“The Homo One, or, I don't know ...”

 

“The Boy Who Loved dash Another Boy?”

 

Harry cracked a grin. “I should have known you'd be better at this than me.” He sighed. “They're all relying on me. There's a prophecy. I'm not supposed to talk about it.”

 

“But it doesn't involve you riding off into the sunset with a red-headed hunk after you've saved the world?” George guessed.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Well then, we don't have to make an announcement. But if I could just come clean with Fred --”

 

“No! I mean, I don't want that.”

 

“\-- We could meet at our flat, then. You could come and stay with us.”

 

“Voldemort -” George repressed a shudder, which annoyed Harry “- is trying to kill me. I don't think the Order are going to let me stay with a couple of drop-outs who are barely of age --”

 

“OK. OK. When can I see you then? Can I see you? Do you want to?”

 

Harry sighed. “I don't want to want to, but ...” He shrugged.

 

George beamed at him, a face-splitting grin. “We'll work something out,” he promised. “And I won't tell anyone. Not even Fred. Not til you're OK with it. Merlin! I want to kiss you so much right now!”


	10. Owl Post

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Something smutty (finally!)

George sent a letter by owl that night. It was long, but stilted and said little. Again, there were worn patches where words had been written and then removed. It arrived at the same time as a message from Dumbledore.

 

Three nights later, Harry was lying in George's bed. He looked over at Fred's bed and wondered which was which. He fell asleep quickly, but as unconsciousness claimed him, he fought to catch the scent of George. All he could smell was gunpowder.

 

The next morning as he dressed, he ran his fingers over the surfaces, trying to picture George's fingers on them. George wasn't there, he was living over the shop with Fred; Harry was staying at The Burrow.

 

In the middle of the second night, Harry was woken by the squeak of a floorboard. Alert for Death Eater attack, he sat bolt upright and reached for his wand and glasses. Before he could get them, though, a hand clamped itself over his mouth and an arm gripped round his shoulders. His guts froze and he waited for death.

 

Instead came a light warmth against his temple. he became aware of it: the smell of George.

 

“Heard you were here,” George whispered.

 

Harry's heart thudded. His groin twitched. George took his hand away from Harry's mouth and replaced it with his own mouth. Harry moaned. George hushed him then resumed the kiss. He slid around Harry, pressing their bodies together, and ended up in the smaller boy's lap. Harry held him, squeezing like he would never let go. Harry lay back, with George on top of him.

 

After a few minutes, George jolted upright with the realisation that they were lying down in a bed together in the dark. Harry sighed. George stood and took a step away from the bed. Harry's arms went limp.

 

“Sorry,” George whispered into the dark.

 

“Why are you here?” Harry asked.

 

“To see you.”

 

“It's dark.”

 

“To kiss you.”

 

There was a silence. They listened to each other's breathing.

 

George's voice was choked up when it came again: “It's not that I don't want to.” He paused. “I don't trust myself. I don't know how I would stop.”

 

“You don't have to stop.”

 

“Oh, Harry. You don't know what I want to do to you. You excite me too much. I have to hold back.”

 

“I might like it.”

 

“No, it's obscene.”

 

“I might.”

 

“I have these dreams.”

 

“I do. I dream I'm touching every part of you. Every single part ...”

 

George gulped. “I'd better go.”

 

“Yeah fuck off!” Harry snapped. “Let me wank it off in peace!”

 

He rolled onto his side, his back to the door, and pressed his palm against the front of his pyjamas. It relieved the ache a little. But not enough. There was a long silence with no sign of George in it. He wanted him back. He wanted to push against his body. naked. The thought made him moan and slide his hand under his waistband.

 

George confused him; he made him tingle; he heated him; he always left.

 

With heavy breaths, Harry took hold of his shaft and moved his hand up and down it, hard and fast, thinking about George. He had walked back to the rest of his life again. Harry felt that his own emotions were overwhelming and George's answers always half-hearted.

 

A breath was released in a gasp somewhere behind Harry. George? Harry pulled at himself harder.

 

The mattress sank lower and a warm body movd in behind him on the body. “May my forefathers forgive me,” said George's strained voice as his arm slipped around Harry. He tugged at Harry's hand, pulling it away and replacing it with his own.

 

The special tingle of George's touch spread over Harry's body. Harry's chest contracted. Night's black looked red. He swore as his breathing grew shallow. The only thing he could feel was the movement of George's hand.

 

George loved the sensation of his jerking hand, even as he hated himself for it. He was intoxicated by the sweaty slide of Harry's back against his chest, his own panting, and Harry's wanton, half-strangled groans. George wanted to see Harry's face and he wanted to be somewhere else, alone, far away, where he couldn't molest this grieving youth. He licked at the wet, hot skin of Harry's neck.

 

The grunted rhythm changed then, Harry's head snapped back, his spine arched and, with a sob, he came. Then he stilled. He softened. He became aware of George's clothed cock, hard against his lower back. George was kissing his neck. And there was sticky mess everywhere.

 

He wiped off George's hand on a dry bit of sheet. Giggling, George whispered, “The Chosen Come.”

 

Harry twisted round to kiss him.


	11. At The Burrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

Harry twisted round to kiss George. It felt like he was somewhere in between waking and sleep. No, something deeper than sleep. He didn't know what to say and, anyway his throat seemed to have closed over. All he knew for sure was that he needed George and he needed him close.

George's arms still encircled him and he did his best to hug back, he was lying on one arm, though. It was going numb. He came gradually back to himself as his post-orgasmic haze faded. It was a self that was more relaxed and at one with itself than he had been for a long time.

George clutched Harry and buried his face in his hair. Harry could feel his arousal, the hot bulge of his erection against Harry's belly. George wasn't doing anything about it, just letting it rest against Harry's body. Harry moved his free hand down to stroke the bulge.

George sprang back, blinking. He grabbed Harry's hand.

“No!” he said. “You shouldn't be --”

“I want to --”

“You don't have to --”

“It's a bit late to be --”

“I don't --”

Harry had had enough of their harsh, whispered argument. He had had enough of George's reticence altogether. He stopped listening and instead pushed George down onto his back. He straddled one thigh, to hold the bigger boy still, and used both hands to undo his belt and zip. George tried to protest, so Harry kissed him.

Harry wanted to prove that he was no child; at the same time, he was aware that he knew so little. He knew what he had spent nights imagining though. It was something he only knew about from dirty jokes. He had no idea how it would taste.

George's throat whimpered as Harry pulled his cock free. Experimentally, without breaking the kiss, Harry touched it. George's chest shuddered under him.

They were both entirely too dressed, Harry decided. He tried to tug up George's shirt, but George was lying on it and he was heavy. George neither stopped him nor helped him. Their mouths slipped away from each other and George gasped but he didn't say anything.

Harry gave up on the quest for nudity and switched back to his first plan. He shuffled down George's body, the ginger head rising to follow his movement.

There it was: so hard and pink and shiny that it could have been made of plastic were it not for the heat rising off it. George's prick. It rose out of his open fly. Harry pushed George's trousers down and this time George moved helpfully, lifting his hips and wriggling free of the tight fabric. There were his balls, dark and wrinkled and fuzzed in red. There was his ginger pubic hair. There was something unreal about it all. Harry lowered his head and opened his mouth.

“Abanazar!” George exclaimed. “Harry, are you ... what are you ... ? fuck, fuck, fuck!”

It tasted musky and metallic, but not strongly so. Harry worried about his teeth. He didn't want to hurt. He wrapped one hand round the base to keep it still and sucked slightly.

George groaned. Harry sucked harder. He stroked with his hand. He licked his tongue up and down inside his mouth, against the throbbing flesh. The taste became saltier. Harry's jaw started to ache. He didn't want to give up now. He took it out of his mouth and tried licking up and down it. George panted and moaned even more. Harry loved those noises. He loved them because they meant that he was making George happy, but also because they meant that he had won. George couldn't hold them back any more now, there was nothing he could claim to be protecting Harry from.

Harry opened his mouth wide again and moved it down onto his lover's cock. His lover. Yes. That was right. He sucked, tried to suck it back as far as it would go. George was softly swearing, his ribs were moving rapidly, his thighs trembling under Harry.

George took hold of Harry's head – gently without pulling his hair – and directed his movement so that he was bobbing up and down to George's rhythm. Suddenly, with a constricted moan, George pulled Harry up, away, off him. Harry's head snapped from side to side as though he were watching a tennis match. He wanted to watch George's flushed, contorted face, and he wanted to watch his cock spraying white all over his freckled belly.

As George recovered, Harry set about getting him naked. Then he took off his own pyjamas. They curled up tight together on the single bed with the blanket pulled up over them.

Dawn was beginning to stir beyond the curtain when Harry woke again. George was shifting beside him. Harry kissed his shoulder sleepily.

“Gotta go. Sorry. Fred'll be wondering. Don't want Mum to catch me.”

“Where's he think you are?”

“Said I'd pick up ...” George indicated some of the boxes of stock piled against the walls.

Harry tried to watch him dress, but his eyelids kept drooping. He was fully asleep again when he felt a firm kiss on his lips.

“Tomorrow night?” Harry mumbled.

“You bet!” George crept from the room carrying two cardboard boxes.

Harry woke up properly a few hours later. It was the first morning since his death that hadn't begun with Sirius on his mind.


	12. Wizard Wheezes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

“Looking good!” said the mirror.

 

“You know what?” George replied. “You are not wrong!”

 

“Out again?” Fred asked, stretching out on the sofa behind him. “Should I wait up or will you be out all night again?”

 

“I'm surprised you're still here. Not seeing Angelina tonight?”

 

“Obviously not. Normal people don't have dates that start at midnight.”

 

“Alicia and Katie busy, too? Even Leanne?”

 

“Just fancied a night off. Might have to cool it with Angelina, actually. She tried to use the 'L' word on me.”

 

“Lymphatic?”

 

Fred ignored George's attempt at a quip and instead asked, as he had done for the last eight nights, “D'you wanna hear my latest theory?”

 

“No,” George answered as usual. He turned back to the mirror and teased a few last strands of hair.

 

“I reckon it's an older woman and she's got to be sure her kids are asleep before you sneak round there. Her husband's – I don't know – in Azkaban or something --”

 

“She couldn't be a widow?”

 

“She could.”

 

“You think I'd have an affair with a married woman? What do you think I'm like?”

 

“I'd do it. What about that Narcissa Malfoy? Her old man's banged up. Is it her? I'd do her. What does lymphatic mean?”

 

“Good night! See you at breakfast!”

 

George Apparated out of their little apartment over the shop and took himself to the meadow behind his parents' house. Any closer and the 'crack!' could have woken someone. He squeezed through a gnome-hole in the hedge. The wards only let him through because he was family.

 

They were all so paranoid about Death Eaters at the moment. He did feel a bit guilty that he hadn't warned anyone about the secret passageway. There would be no point in all the secret questions and Auror patrols if the wrong person found out about the trapdoor in the broom shed which he and Fred had years ago spelled to lead to a dumb waiter which they had magically integrated into the higgeldy piggeldy chimney system of The Burrow.

 

It had once been a useful way to break curfews and groundings. Now it was giving George access to Harry. It could be deadly in the wrong hands. As soon as Harry went back to school he'd confess. But what about the next school holidays? And the next?

 

He eased himself silently into the little wooden crate and pulled the door down on him. He tapped the sides with his wand in a pattern only he and Fred knew. It should be safe. Only, you never could tell with Death Eaters. Sneaky bastards. Then there was a light trembling and he was moving upwards as smoothly as could be. One of their better inventions, he thought.

 

He counted twenty seven and then lifted the trap door again. he climbed out into the clean little fireplace in his childhood bedroom.

 

Harry had been dozing. He had started going to bed earlier and earlier, but no-one had commented. They were probably putting it down to stress. Or plenty of fresh air and exercise. He sat up when he heard his lover creep in. He had left the curtains open so that the moon would light up that hair, that face, that body. He watched George stalking across the floor towards him. They both grinned madly.

 

George put up the silencing spells on the way, wafting his wand at the door without ever taking his eyes off Harry. Harry pulled up his pyjama top and George drank in the sight of all that smooth, olive skin. He discarded his own T-shirt, slipped off his shoes, and climbed into the bed.

 

They had a pattern now. First they kissed, hands playing over each other's bare backs. They started off gentle and chaste, then nibbling and then each tongue eased into the other's mouth. From there the pace built, the urgency, their hands strayed further, their trousers were pulled off. They frotted their naked groins together: hard, dripping cocks rubbing, hips thrusting, mouths slipping onto necks, fingers onto nipples.

 

Tonight, George's hand pressed against the small of Harry's sweaty back, slid down, grabbed his buttock. Then he did something he hadn't done before. It wasn't calculated, he was too far lost in lust for thought, his fingers just inched up and to the side and then they were there, pressing against Harry's entrance.

 

Harry startled back, away from him, sat up and choked out, “What?”

 

George was horrified, staring at his pervert fingers. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean. It's too soon.”

 

“What?” Harry asked again.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“Why?”

 

“We don't have to ... I didn't mean ...”

 

“Have to what? Really. Tell me. I don't understand.”

 

“If you don't want to, then that's fine.” George swung his legs off the side of the bed.

 

“Don't go! I'm sorry!”

 

“You're sorry?” George was confused.

 

He looked over to Harry's face to help him out. Harry looked even more confused than him. George looked away before whispering, “I've been wanting to make love to you.”

 

Harry sounded hesitant as he replied, “I love you, George. I want to show you that, too. But I don't know ... Is that how ...?”

 

George took hold of Harry's small, slim fingers. He held both of Harry's hands in his. The scars from the Blood Quill were still clear on the back of one hand. It made sense that he wouldn't know. His life had been so odd, how would Harry have ever learned anything?

 

“You know how men and women have sex?” George began.

 

“Not really,” Harry admitted. “I could play cool here, but I don't know ... I don't know how long ... I mean, I want to ... if it means you think I'm stupid... well, it's worth it 'cos ...” but he trailed off.

 

George wasn't at all sure what that had been supposed to tell him. “I love you, Harry, and if you won't let me tell anyone else how much --”

 

“There's too much going on now --”

 

“I know. That's fine. But if I can't do that, then I was thinking I would like to get as close to you as I possibly can. I'd like to have, well either you in me or me in you. Is that OK?”

 

“Sounds fantastic. But how?”

 

“It's too soon, though. We're fine as we are. I love how we are together already.” George lay back down and pulled Harry on top of him.

 

“No!” Harry lifted his neck so he could look straight into George's eyes. “I don't know anthing, that's all. Look, when the war's over, if I'm still ... if we're both ... well, then we'll tell everyone. Then I won't care what anyone thinks. Only ... only ... I might not be around then --”

 

“Don't say that!”

 

“If I'm not, then I don't want to have missed ... Well, anyway. I don't want to be going up against -- into battle or whatever and thinking 'I wish I'd done ...' You know. It's just that there might not be a later, so it's not too soon. There is only now. I want to do everything. Because maybe there is only now. So tell me, please. Explain to me how to make love.”


	13. The Boy Who Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

“I don't want to be going up against -- into battle or whatever and thinking 'I wish I'd done ...' You know. It's just that there might not be a later, so it's not too soon. There is only now. I want to do everything. Because maybe there is only now. So tell me, please. Explain to me how to make love.” Harry's widened eyes glittered in the half-dark. His naked thighs pressed against George's.

Explain? Talk? About sex? About specific body parts and about specific people: the two of them – Harry and George – while they were actually together and naked and touching?

No. George was happy (more than happy) to put Harry's cock in his mouth, but he wasn't about to put the words 'your cock' in it. Besides, he was hardly an expert. He had precisely as much experience of sexual intercourse as Harry did. Namely, none. No, there was no question that he was about to start 'explaining' anything.

But he was going to do it. They were going to do it together now. Neither of them was about to miss out on this. They needed it; they deserved it. Harry was right, there might not be another chance. Cedric hadn't been given any warning, nor had Sirius, nor Harry's parents or George's uncles. Nobody had told them when their last night was, their one and only chance to do all the things that would fulfil them, their right time to make love to their special someone.

No explaining. He would have to try to show Harry. And he'd been wrong before, because if there was any chance of anyone getting hurt then that someone had better be him.

George cast _lumos_ and kicked off what remained of the bedding. He kissed Harry quickly on the lips and lay back. Harry was watching him with an earnestness which was arousing and terrifying at the same time. It was handy that they were in his old bed. He slid a hand down between the mattress and the base to where he was sure he remembered leaving a bottle of baby oil. It was there. Handy being in this bed, but weird, too. He had slept here every night of his childhood, save a few in Egypt. His mother had nursed him through illnesses here, he had plotted with Fred here, and read comic-books with the muggle torch he'd stolen from his father.

In later years he'd had embarrassing wet dreams here. He'd tried to masturbate silently without waking Fred, as well as pulling the blankets over his ears and lying mortified, feigning sleep and pretending he couldn't hear Fred tugging away and grunting.

Now he was going to lose his virginity in this bed.

He soaked his hands in the oil like he did sometimes when he wanked. He gave his cock a stroke – as much for the comfort as anything. He watched Harry watching. He thought about rolling over, about going up on all fours. He didn't want to miss out on seeing Harry's face, though. So, he raised his knees, held his balls up out of the way and with one finger of the other hand he slid inside himself.

Harry gasped. George saw his green eyes flickering from George's face to his own stiff prick, to George's finger. He opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, but George wasn't about to enter into a discussion. He closed his eyes and pumped with his finger. He heard Harry emit a strange whimper.

George added another finger and tried to stretch himself. This wasn't going to work. It couldn't possibly. The relative sizes were all wrong. He'd got something wrong. He was starting to hurt himself so he slowed down. It _was_ working, he _was_ wider. He stroked himself again for reassurance.

George wasn't sure he liked having someone, anyone, even Harry, watching him when he was wanton and exposed like this. He was embarrassed. He was self-conscious. He didn't even know whether he was getting this right. He wasn't even turned on any more.

There was a noise, a wet noise. He didn't know what it was and he was about to look round, but then his cock went warm and he felt Harry's slicked hand wrapping around it and taking over. Harry must have coated his own hand in the baby oil. He was stroking, pulling, squeezing and making everything good.

No, Harry must have moistened both of his hands, because tentative fingers were moving across George's perineum. Then the coldness of the air was gone because his body was covering George's and the self-consciousness was swallowed by a deep kiss as Harry's fingers joined George's and George realised that not only was this possible, but it was happening and he wanted – oh so much – for it to happen now.

“You feel fantastic,” Harry whispered between kisses. A little later he said, “Love you so much, want you so much.” Between them they positioned Harry's prick at George's entrance and looked into each other's eyes. “Oh, George. Oh, yes,” Harry said and he pushed in.

George said nothing. His throat had closed over. Every part of him was too sensitive to everything. He could only sigh and moan lightly. Language was impossible. he concentrated on breathing and on trying to relax. It hurt. A bit. But it wasn't a pain that mattered once he saw Harry's expression. It wasn't a pain that lasted long either. He held onto Harry's sweat-slicked, fiery ribcage and let himself be filled.

He was just starting to really get into it, when, with a holler of “Fuck! Merlin! Fuck!” it was all over.


	14. The Holders Of The Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Contains explicit description of a sexual act.

For a moment they lay, frozen into position, George with his knees up, his cock hard and the weight of a barely-sentient Harry on his chest. Then Harry opened his eyes and they stared, all green and glittering, straight into George's face. He grinned and nothing else meant anything.

“Wow,” he said. Then. “I love you.”

George smiled back at him.

“Oh, fuck, sorry, fuck. You're still ... you didn't -- sorry!” A frown creased the space between Harry's eyebrows. With his shoulder creaking, George put a finger to it and tried to smooth it down. Harry shifted back. He looked down between their bodies. George hoped he was looking at his cock, he hoped Harry would touch it soon, or shuffle down and take it in his mouth. He groaned with frustration.

Then Harry said, “We could ... you could ... Yes! My turn.”

As he pulled out and got off George asked, “What?”

“It's fantastic! You have to do it too. Where's the oil gone?”

“Really?” Did his young lover mean what he thought he meant?

It looked like it. Harry had the oil, he was making a mess as he tipped it all over his hands, all over his own arse. Before George could stop him, he'd shoved a finger straight up his hole.

“Ow!”

“Slow down, fuck's sake. Let me. You ever had anything up there before?”

Harry looked confused. “Like what?”

“You sure about this?”

“Why are you always asking me things like that? You think I don't know my own mind?” Harry looked furious all of a sudden and George jumped out of the bed. He could go home or get into Fred's bed and wank himself off. If anyone should have been frustrated it should have been him!

“Stop fucking running away!” Harry looked so sad then that George had to grab his face and kiss him.

“You want to do it to me?” Harry asked then.

George nodded. “Just be careful,” he muttered, climbing back onto the bed, on top of Harry, “you're precious.” He rubbed his fingers over the blobs of gloop sticking their thighs together. “Don't rush into things.” He ran careful, gentle, loving fingers into Harry's crack. They were both aware of his hot, hard prick between them, but he took it slow, massaging and teasing before he pushed just a little way in. “OK?” he asked.

Harry nodded. “Better,” he admitted.

The soft heat round his finger as he pushed in was driving George wild. That's what it would feel like. He had to speed this up. Safely.

“Get up on all-fours.”

“You didn't.”

“You have to argue about everything?” His tone was affectionate.

“Don't take that finger out.”

So they manoeuvred round the place where their bodies were joined and got Harry onto his hands and knees. Gently, George pushed down on Harry's skinny shoulders until his head was on the pillow. George finger moved. Harry hummed with pleasure.

“You look fantastic,” George managed before his throat closed over and the sensuality robbed him of language again.

Harry did look fantastic. His white arse was up, bathed in wand-light, perfectly round and dimpled, with his slender limbs and torso tucked under him. George squeezed another finger in with the first and Harry whimpered.

“I like that.” Harry mumbled into the pillow. “Oh I like that a lot a lot a lot. More!”

But George waited. He kept on moving those fingers until he felt the tight muscle softening and relaxing round them. Then there was a third finger and George watched the beautiful little reddening pucker open. His blood surged through him. He didn't know how he was going to stand that sensation round his cock without passing out. No wonder Harry had come so soon.

Then Harry yelped and George realised he'd hit something that felt different inside there. He stilled.

“No! Don't stop! Oh Merlin, sweet fucking Jesus, move!”

George did as he was told. He wanted to put his prick in now, he wanted to ask whether now was the right time, wanted to warn Harry. But he couldn't form words so he kept going with his hand instead until Harry, barely coherent, stuttered, “Fuck me fuck me fuck me.”

So George did.

He couldn't be sure that he hadn't passed out. The world was black and red. Everything was hot and it sang. There was panting. He boiled like magma. Time became meaningless. Then everything was even more – which couldn't be possible – then it was all over.

They lay together. “Love you, Harry,” George said. Then neither of them said anything for a long time.

Somehow there was birdsong and pale sunlight. George knew he had to go before he was found, but it seemed like letting go of Harry would feel like being skinned. He kissed his little nose.

“Whassa time?” Harry asked thickly.

“I love you,” George answered.

Harry giggled. “S'all right then. Your mum be up soon?”

George pictured it, his mother, maybe carrying a cup of tea, opening the bedroom door and finding the two of them naked in the bed together, his arms round Harry's chest, Harry's leg thrown over his thighs. The image was enough to break the moment. Sleepily, still regretfully, he sat up and looked around for his clothes.

“See you later anyway,” Harry murmured, pulling clumsily at a sheet.

“Huh?” George put his feet on the floor.

“See the shop. Is it brilliant?”

“Yeah.” George pictured it, his daytime life coming back to him. “Yeah it is. All cos of you.” He'd given them the money to start it all up. George hoped he'd be impressed with what he and Fred had done. He barked a laugh. “My sleeping partner!”

Harry chuckled too.

“Why you coming up to Diagon? Thought Mum was paranoid about Death Eaters.” George was nearly dressed now. He sat back down on the bed to tie his shoe laces.

Harry snaked a hand onto his thigh. “School stuff,” he explained.

George's guts froze.

“When's term start?”

He hadn't thought about it. Neither of them had talked about it. What was the date now? Harry would be getting on the Hogwarts Express and George wouldn't. It would be weeks. How long was a term?

“Couple of days,” Harry replied dully.

They were silent and still, not looking at each other, each sinking into their own misery.

“I'll miss this,” Harry said eventually. His voice was without expression, but they both knew he was understating. “It'll be Christmas.”

“No. I can Apparate!”

“Not into Hogwarts.”

“But Hogsmead.”

Harry sighed. “With Voldemort active. I don't know. If they let us out, then yeah. It'll only be one weekend though. I'll probably have some kind of bodyguard, or spies --”

“Hang on! No! There's a way round this!” George turned to face the unhappy boy curling into himself on the bed. He was getting excited now. “Look Sirius did it, didn't he?”

“You're going to turn into a dog?” Harry questioned cynically.

“No, but --”

“Look, if there _was_ a way in then it would be dangerous. If you can get in then so can a Dark Lord, or one of his minions. Shit! I hate being me! Last night was fantastic and I just want to spend the rest of my life making love with you and forget about saving the world and --” Whatever else Harry was saying between sobs got gagged by George's shoulder as he was dragged up into a hug.

“Shush a minute,” George stroked down the black hair. It bounced back up again as soon as his hand passed over it. “You've got the map. Whoever has the map is special. You had it, we had it, Sirius and your Dad and Wormtail and whatever, they made it. Death Eaters don't know what we know. He knew, I know, you know. If he did it, I can do it.”

Harry pulled his face away, looked up into George's face. He didn't look so sad any more. George's heart skipped. They were talking about Sirius and Harry hadn't broken down.

“The Shrieking Shack?” Harry asked.

“I hadn't thought of that. Yes, there as well. And that tunnel from Honeydukes.”

Harry sniffed and smiled. “Yeah.”

“I'll owl you, then you look for me on the map.”

“Yeah.” Harry scrambled up to kissing position. “Couple of more nights here anyway.” He leaned forward.

A stair squeaked.

George leapt out of Harry's arms and across the room, grabbing his wand, removing the locking and silencing spells, diving into the grate.

Harry wiped his wet face on the pillow. He lay back to enjoy the end of the dawn chorus.


	15. The One-Eyed Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Angst. Smut.   
> **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**

Harry was scanning the map, again, trying to work out where Malfoy had disappeared to, again, when he saw it. Just behind the statue of the one-eyed, hunch-backed witch, was the name _George Weasley_. It shunted along a few millimetres and then back again. This was not good. Harry had been kind of expecting it, but without an owled arrangement, and given that George seemed to be pacing, and considering what Harry had been up to recently, it was not good.

They had been meeting up roughly every other week all year – sometimes at the Shrieking Shack, sometimes in the basement of Honeydukes, occasionally George would side-along Harry from the Hogsmeade end of the secret tunnel to another venue. Once, when Fred was out with Angelina, it was to the twins' flat. George had always sent a message a few days before, though. He had never just turned up.

Harry sighed and pulled on his invisibility cloak. He was going to have to face the music some time. He had been hoping for a day or so to steel himself, though. He slunk out of the Portrait Hole and along the thronging corridors.

George turned round as soon as he heard Harry's feet hit the floor. He didn't wait for the statue to slide back over the entrance hole, or for Harry to get the cloak off. He went straight into his attack:

“You might have fucking told me! You might have done me the courtesy of an owl, or, Merlin forbid, a fucking conversation!” His face was bright red and, though his hands were fisted in fury, his eyes were tight with pain. “I had to hear it from Mum! I had to act all pleased as she read out ... I mean – Gandalf's ball-sac! - my own bloody sister! You might have done me the courtesy, had the decency ... but I'm just your shameful secret, aren't I? I'm your furtive fuck and you can dump me as quietly as you picked me up and it's not like I've got feelings so you don't have to --”

Harry scrunched the cloak up and dug his fingernails into it. He didn't know what to say. He tried to say, “George!” but it came out as a whisper, and a whisper wasn't going to halt this tirade.

“\-- get in touch or warn me or let me know I've been chucked. Just let bloody Ginny write home about her wonderful new boyfriend and how happy she is and ... and ... are you shagging her? 'Cos she'd hardly mention that to Mum, but reading between the --”

“No!”

“Not yet!”

“Not. No. And you're not dumped, I never wanted for you to be ... unless you can't ... Please, George!” Harry grabbed George by the wrist, hard. “Please don't, I mean, please forgive me, I need you. Don't leave me!”

George paused for a moment, stunned. Then, “So you're not going out with Ginny? She's, what, delusional? Or ...?”

“Yes. I am.” Harry couldn't look at his lover's face. “But don't leave me. If you make me choose, I'll choose you. Only please, don't. Please let me explain.” His voice started to crack. He continued to stare at one of George's knees. He stuffed the cloak in his pocket so he could add his other hand to the grip on George's wrist.

George stood stiffly. “Go on then.”

Harry looked at him questioningly.

“So explain. 'Cos you're smelling like bullshit from here.”

Harry swallowed and took a deep breath.

“And let go. You're hurting.” George wrenched himself out of Harry's hold. He crossed his arms.

Harry leaned against the wall of the passageway. He scratched at the back of one hand, at the blood-quill scar, with the nails of the other hand. He stared at the opposite wall.

He started hesitantly: “I just wanted to ... there's a lot on and it's looking more like ... well, Dumbledore hasn't exactly said ... I don't know ... I've said before, I might not ... Voldemort's been trying to kill me all my life. If he succeeds – I just wanted to have done things. Having a girlfriend seems like something. It is different. Kissing her – and that's all we've done – it's not like kissing you. I just wanted to know, to try ... everything.”

“So now you've tried it you can stop.”

“I could do.”

“But you don't want to?”

“Not really.” Harry's intense green eyes shifted, finally, to the face he loved. George didn't look as flushed as he had done, but his expression was guarded. Harry added, “You know, when it's all over, when things are safe. I told you. Didn't I? Then we can tell everyone. It'll be you I'm with then.”

“So what about Ginny?”

“It's just a school thing. She's not going to expect it to last.”

George sighed. “You had to pick my bloody sister, didn't you?”

“Well I knew she was ... oh, look it just happened. She's been seeing these boys and I got jealous. I don't know what it means, but, for now, I'm going with it.”

George took a step back to slide down the wall. He squatted in the dust with his head in his hands. He groaned, then lifted his head and grinned. “I should not be this relieved to find out you're two-timing me.”

Harry moved towards him, knelt down in front of him. “You're not ending it then?” he asked.

George chuckled darkly. “After the couple of hours I've just had? No. It was horrible. I thought we weren't going to be together again.” He rolled his head round, releasing the tension there with a loud crack. “I can't be happy without you, the promise of you, your touch. If this thing with Ginny is what you need then I guess I'll have to live with it. You might have let me know, you bastard!”

“I'm sorry.” Harry put his hands on George's knees. “I am sorry. I don't want to lose you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” George sounded resigned now.

They stared at each other for a minute or so. Then Harry leaned up and forward and put his lips to George's cooling cheek.

“Forgive me?” he whispered.

“I guess.”

“Well, then. As you're here ...?”

“You are fucking unbelievable, Potter.”

“Only 'cos you are an unbelievable fuck. Weasley.”

“Oh, flattery, flattery.”

“Am I not allowed to suck you off, then?”

George pretended to consider the offer. He hummed for a while, eyeing the roof of the tunnel. Then he looked back at Harry and winked. “Oh, all right then.” He shifted to kneel up, bracing himself against the wall.

Eagerly, Harry undid the buttons at his lover's fly. He licked his lips as he saw the half-hard bulge there.

As the Wizarding World's dark-haired hope pushed down the fabric of his underpants, though, George couldn't resist having another dig. “Shouldn't I be blowing you? So you can compare me to my sister?”

“That would spoil my apology,” Harry croaked.

“Has she?”

“No!”

“Not yet.”

Harry decided to shut George up by filling his own mouth.

He sucked down hard, as much as he could take, in one go. No teasing. George made a keening noise and Harry knew he wouldn't speak again for a while. Harry's tongue rubbed hard at the underside of the shaft, while he hollowed his cheeks, one hand working at ginger-haired balls, while the other slid between tight buttocks and caressed at his love's hole. He let George's hips thrust forward, fucking him in the mouth.

George's hands left the wall and took hold of Harry's head. He jerked into him and Harry's nose was full of the musky scent of George, his mouth full of his salty taste. Harry's jaw ached and his throat tried to gag. But all he cared about now was making his lover happy again. There was pain from his scalp as his hair was twisted and pulled. His back was uncomfortable. Grit bit into his knees. There was nowhere he would rather have been.

George made a hiccupping grunt. That was all the warning Harry ever got, all the warning he needed. He swallowed the thick liquid and drank in the abandoned yelp of pleasure. George's pelvis jerked a few more times, then he collapsed sideways and Harry caught him. They lay on the hard ground, George's head on Harry's chest, Harry's fingers stroking through George's hair, their thighs twined round each other's. Harry kissed George's forehead and whispered, “I'm sorry.”


	16. The One-Eared Wizard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's (long) Note:** I am sorry that the last chapter upset some people. I can understand that some readers don't want to see Harry being unfaithful. However, this story is canon compliant and there will be more two-timing to come. If you don't like that idea, then you should probably stop reading now. I will not handle the issues raised by this in a flippant manner, part of the point of this story for me is to fully explore the reactions to such an emotionally complex situation. I hope to explain the motivations of all those involved, and the consequences. This story continues to beyond the epilogue so there are a lot of possibilities for how things could turn out. I would like for as many people as possible to take this journey with me, but if you don't want to then I respect that decision, too. I've got a lot of time to cover so there will be some more big time-jumps, but I promise that there will be plenty more smut, too!

The air sped past him and he clung on tight. They were rushing through the sky. It was exhilarating, being chased by Death Eaters. It was unbearably arousing, to be disguised as Harry, he was fighting to keep his hands to himself and his mind on the job.

 

This was it, this was what The Order had excluded him from. He wasn't too young any more. Somewhere out there, Harry was experiencing exactly what George was. All this on top of getting Harry back to The Burrow, where George could visit him every night. And now he would have his love to himself, because Harry had given up on that silly experiment with -

 

Pain! Searing! Hot! Like nothing, nothing had prepared him, nothing could be pain like this, except, maybe, dying. The side of his head ... his ear ... his ... no! Ear!

 

And he passed out.

 

When he came round, it was Fred he saw and he wouldn't have wanted it to have been anyone else. His brain was fogged with potions or charms or something, but the pain that was still getting through was intense. He cracked a bad joke and Fred grinned.

 

"Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related humour before you, you go for _holey_?"*

 

Fred was smiling, though. It was OK. Everything would turn out all right.

 

It was some hours later, in the dark, and alone, that George allowed himself to think. Flashes of lucidity had jumped out at him throughout the afternoon, but he had pushed them back. Now he could face it, though: he had lost his ear.

 

He would be deformed for the rest of his life. He was going to be hearing in mono like this for the rest of his life. This blackened, pitted crater would be a feature of his face for the rest of his life. And he would never be identical to Fred again.

 

The door creaked slightly, accompanied by one hesitant foot fall. He knew who this would be. He waited.

 

"You awake?” Harry whispered.

 

"Sort of.” George replied. He didn't know why he said that. He was as awake as he had been all day.

 

The door clicked shut and Harry tiptoed over, casting _Lumos_ on the way.

 

"No! No light!” George whispered.

 

"Sorry.” The light went out. “Your eyes sensitive?”

 

"No.”

 

"You hurting?”

 

"Bit. Not too bad. Nothing a kiss won't mend.”

 

"Kiss it better?” Harry asked and they both remembered.

 

The first kiss: George kissing the back of Harry's scored hand in the empty Common Room and then running away.

 

Harry's warm breath hit George's cheek before his lips did.

 

"That it? Don't I deserve a proper kiss?”

 

"Of course you do. I'm so sorry. And so grateful.”

 

"Shut up and get on with it!”

 

Harry ran his tongue across George's face, leaving a delicious shivering in his wake. Then their lips were together and George closed his eyes even though it was dark. Their mouths moved against each other in familiar patterns, heat rising, breaths getting shorter. Harry's hands stroked at George's shirt, finding his nipples; George gripped Harry's head, stroked his neck, caressed his cheeks, avoided his ears.

 

"I want to see you,” Harry broke off to grunt.

 

"I'm ... not yet. Let me get used to it ...”

 

"To what?”

 

"I'm, I'm ...” He couldn't face saying it seriously, so he put on a silly, slurring voice – part Elephant Man, part Quasi Modo – and moaned, “I am a deformed and hideous beast!”

 

"Oh, shut up _! Lumos!”_

 

Harry was staring at him and George cringed away from it.

 

"You look as lovely as ever to me.”

 

"Don't look at that side of my head!”

 

Harry sighed, but nodded.

 

"Sit on my lap!”

 

"Are you up to it?”

 

"I'm fine. I want to feel your cock getting hard against my belly.”

 

"Last of the great romantics! Someone's going to come in any minute. I shouldn't even be here. We're all under orders to let you rest.”

 

"Then they won't come near! Anyway, they'll knock. Look, just lock the door.”

 

"'Cos that won't be suspicious at all! Us locked in a room together!”

 

"We'll use the old 'the door was just stuck' excuse.”

 

"No.” But Harry leaned forward and kissed him again.

 

They stared at each other. Harry was as true as his word and he kept his gaze on George's eyes and nose, but that just made the other man wonder if it was because he couldn't bring himself to look at that ugly, scorched hole.

 

"I have to wait 'til tonight then?” George asked.

 

Harry looked a bit startled. Which was odd.

 

"Tonight. Yes. OK. But then that's ...”

 

"What? That's what?”

 

"I'll talk to you tonight. Look, I'd better go before I'm missed.”

 

"Before you do. Harry.” He patted Harry's arm. “I'm so happy that you dumped Ginny, I mean that you stopped, you know. She told us.”

 

"Was she upset?” Harry looked truly concerned, which riled George.

 

"No, not really. That was a brilliant excuse you came up with. Made it look like it was all for her own good, 'cos you're so noble and heroic and everything. You'd just had enough, hadn't you? You'd tried having a girlfriend and having everyone seeing you having one and you'd had enough. Hadn't you?”

 

There was a pause. It was too long.

 

"Look, I'll see you tonight. But George, it has to be the last time. It wasn't an excuse. I told Ginny the truth and it's the same for you.” Harry bit his lip and his eyes seemed to be getting wet at the edges. “He'll do anything, use anything. I can't have you getting hurt again, or even ... or even ...”

 

George grabbed Harry by the collar. This could not be happening! “But nobody knows about us!”

 

"Are you a skilled Occlumens? 'Cos I know I'm crap at it!”

 

"You not seeing me isn't going to stop how I feel! They'd still know I -”

 

"Don't say it! Not now! It's too difficult already!”

 

"I love you!”

 

Harry backed away. He looked stricken, his crumpled face matching the collapsing of his heart that George felt in his own chest.

 

"Gotta go!” Harry mumbled.

 

"Tonight?” George asked.

 

Harry nodded and left the room. He took his lit wand with him and George was left in the darkness.  
  
\------------

 

*From Chapter 5, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, by J K Rowling.


	17. When Ron Snores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**

**Warning:** Smut.

Molly insisted that George spend the night at The Burrow, which should have made things easier. However, it meant that Harry was sharing with Ron again. The day had been so eventful that his best friend wanted to go over it all. Even when Harry feigned sleep, Ron kept talking. Harry felt bad for wanting Ron to shut up. They hadn't seen each other since the end of term, and then there had been all the excitement – and tragedy – of the journey from Little Whingeing. But Harry ached for George.

 

Finally, Harry heard familiar, deep snores from the other bed. He waited still, though. He didn't want Ron waking up and asking him where he was off to. The loo was the obvious lie. He wanted to use that one, though, if he woke Ron on the way back to bed in, hopefully, a few hours' time.

 

He didn't know this house as well as the Dursleys'. There he knew every squeaky floorboard. He did know it well enough to look suspicious if he was found on the wrong storey. He summoned his best sneaking powers and hoped hard that Fred had gone back to Diagon Alley as he had said he would. Molly was worried about her baby (George) and didn't want him left alone. The twins were more worried about their own baby, the shop.

 

George sat up in bed with a start.

 

“Just me!” Harry whispered once the door was closed.

 

“Thought you weren't coming,” George muttered. “Fell asleep.”

 

“Ron,” Harry explained.

 

“Little bastard,” George replied affectionately.

 

Harry sat on the bed and, blinking sleepily, they grinned at each other. Harry put a hand up to George's face, taking hold of his jaw and the scarring where his ear had been. Before George could squirm, he leaned in and kissed him hard.

 

Their tongues caressed each other with reassuringly recognisable patterns; their hands clutched hungrily at skin and fabric and hair.

 

“Oh, Merlin. I'm gonna miss this so much.” Harry's voice was so broken it was nearly a sob.

 

“Then don't --”

 

“Gonna miss you. Won't be forever.” Harry slammed their mouths back together before his lover could argue any more.

 

He pushed forward, pushed the bigger boy back until he was lying down, then climbed on top of him. Their engorged cocks knocked into each other and George found his hips jerking uncontrollably, rutting up. Harry gasped loudly into his mouth.

 

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”

 

George didn't answer; he was beyond speech. He threw his head backwards and Harry moved down to bite at his neck. George tugged at the top of Harry's pyjamas, yanking backwards, making buttons fly from their stitches, needing the soft-skinned bony feel of Harry's naked chest against his own.

 

Harry pulled away to take in a deep breath and to haul George's vest up and over his head. As their fingers scrabbled at each other's sides, George thought _'I just want this to be always, every night and all the daylight minutes, too, we should always be like this'._ Then Harry shot down the bed to claim the dark, hot cock escaping from George's boxer shorts and coherent thought ended.

 

Harry took it straight into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue moving fast and desperate against George's shaft. George sat up and leaned forward, causing Harry's teeth to scrape him but not caring about that. He needed everything all at once. He dragged Harry round by the hips, rotating him about George's prick, his mouth still working ferociously. George got his lips on the already damp cotton of Harry's pyjama trousers at the same time as he pulled them down, stinging his own nose with the elastic, but not caring.

 

George lay flat on his back, his young lover's knees either side of his head and they licked and sucked and kissed each other raw, each filled with the salty, musky taste of the other. George gripped Harry by the buttocks, pressing him closer in to his face, trying to drown in him, to breath him in and eat him and live on nothing but Harry Potter.

 

Harry's spit-slicked fingers worked down between George's cheeks, both hands frantically seeking out his hole. Still sucking, he pushed in hard, pumping one finger then two in and out, nails catching skin, beyond finesse.

 

“George stop! Stop! I want to come inside you. So close!”

 

George couldn't stop, as much as he wanted Harry's cock filling his arse, he also wanted it filling his mouth and he wanted to be inside Harry and he wanted all of it all at once.

 

Harry ripped himself upwards and out of his boyfriend's grip. George groaned.

 

“I love you, love you, love you,” Harry gabbled soothingly, turning himself round, forcing up sweaty, freckled knees, shoving his hands under muscular buttocks to tilt the pelvis just right, before slamming straight in and hitting George's prostate hard. Then there was a blur of heat and joy before Harry screamed out curses as he came.

 

Without giving the Chosen One time to recover, George rolled them both over. Their heads were hanging off the edge of the bed as George lifted up off Harry's cock, wiping one hand over it and onto his own to lubricate himself, before gradually pushing in to Harry's unprepared anus.

 

Harry started swearing again, thrusting up to meet George's movements, their hot, slippery chests sliding uncontrolled off each other, feet flailing towards the floor, panting, moaning, Harry's nails digging into George's back, George gasping, grunting, shuddering and finally collapsing.

 

Harry kissed the only bit of skin his lips could reach, just below where the ear should have been. They fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. When George awoke he was the only one in the tangled sheets and it was a very long time before they were alone together again.


	18. Muggle London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **All characters and situations remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling, apart from the one who remains the intellectual and legal property of Russell T Davies.**
> 
> **Warning** : Smut.
> 
> **Author's Note:** _This is a bit of a deviation from the plot. I hope you like it. You may or may not recognise George's new friend from some other place, but I hope it will be just as enjoyable either way. I'm going to be away for a week, but after that I'll get on with the next chapter and we can time jump to the end of Deathly Hallows._

“You going out again?”

“Twice in two weeks.”

“Not complaining.” Fred forked some cold takeaway chow mein out of the foil container. “What you do with your ear?” he asked through week-old food.

“A Glamour. Does it look all right?”

“Perfect. Which one's missing again?”

“Ha ha.”

“It'll be great 'til some bird tries to nibble it.”

“No chance of that,” George muttered under his breath. “You not out with Angelina?” he asked more loudly.

“Nah!” Fred lay back on the sofa in his grubby boxer shorts and his work shirt. He dropped the now empty foil carton on the floor among the beer cans and crisp packets. “Trying to cool things down there. Too young and too attractive to get tied down to one bird.”

“You're such a catch!”

“I am. And you're lucky enough to be nearly as gorgeous as I am. The perfect pulling team.” He sat up. “Take me with you.”

“No.”

“Oh, go on. Why not? We can hunt as a pair again. Where are you going?”

“You've got a girlfriend.”

“Not really. I only need ten minutes and then I'll look as hot as you. We'll be irresistible. You going to a Muggle club, yeah?”

“Well, yeah, but -”

“Full of tasty bimbos?”

“No.”

“Yeah, you are. I won't get in the way -”

“Fred! You can't come. Anyway you wouldn't like it.”

“Why not? You like it. We're practically the same person -”

George's mind was swiftly running through the promises he'd made to Harry, sifting his own secrets from the ones that could affect his former lover: the man who was out Merlin-knew-where, doing Gandalf-knew-what, the man who didn't want to see him any more, or even keep in touch. His ex. The one he'd decided to try living without.

“I'm gay. Fred. I'm going to a gay club. To try to pull a bloke. Ok?”

Fred's face froze. He took a couple of deep breaths. Then he was back. “Ok. Right. I'll stay here then.” He paused, rolled his shoulders. George watched him closely. “You didn't think you might mention this before then? Oh! That explains the veela-cousins at the wedding, you crying off and letting me do them both. And that means that married woman you were nobbing the summer before last wasn't a woman?”

“Wasn't married either, I never said who I was seeing.”

“I know. I made it up. You might have told me. Did you think I'd freak or something?”

“No. It's just. It's him, the one I was seeing then. There's only been him and he wanted it kept secret.”

“And now?” Fred eyed the carefully chosen clothes and the perfectly styled hair.

“He dumped me,” George muttered. “Well sort of ... we might ... I dunno ... later on ...”

“Like Ginny?”

George held his breath. He hoped Fred wouldn't read anything into the parallel. He hoped Fred wouldn't work it out. Only, a little bit of him wished he would, because George hated having secrets from his twin. “Not really,” he lied after a few seconds.

“You gonna bring him back here?” Fred asked dubiously, regarding the messy sitting room over the shop.

“Who? What?”

“Whoever you pull tonight. What did you do last week?”

“Bottled out,” George admitted. “Stood on the other side of the road and watched all these fit blokes going into this club. Never got the guts up to go in.”

“So now you know what you're doing,” Fred encouraged.

“Right. Um, no. Fred. We share a bedroom. I don't think I'm going to bring anyone back here.”

“Just as well.”

“You worried about a mistaken identity in the middle of the night and you ending up with a cock up the arse?” George laughed.

“Each to their own, mate, but I am seriously not up for that!”

“Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. Right, I'm off. Do I look gorgeous?”

“Knock out. Oh, and good luck, mate.”

George Apparated away. He hadn't really expected any other response from Fred. Ever. It was good to be honest with him. He wasn't brave enough to tell anyone else yet, but Fred wasn't anyone else. He wished he could have said something years ago, but then it had been Harry's secret as well as his own. Now he was alone.

Alone meant single, and single meant he could pick up someone handsome and do something rude with him and never face a consequence. He should be more excited than scared. As he slipped out of the alleyway to which he had Apparated and walked down the street opposite the club, though, he felt like he was about to throw up.

He crossed the road. He made himself cross the road. But he didn't get in the queue. He sat on a bollard and stared at the shiny doors and the bright lights and the attractive boys.

“You not going in, then? I don't blame you. It's dead boring in there. I haven't seen you here before, I thought I'd had everyone worth having in London, just about ready to head home. You're new, though, Red. We haven't met before, have we? I like your shirt.”

George looked up at the blond, let him keep talking, gabbling away confidently. He couldn't remember which shirt he was wearing, now, he'd tried on too many.

“Thanks,” he said.

“So, what do you think, you want to go in and dance a bit first? Only, I'm warning you, the queue takes forever and the music's crap. The bogs'll be full of blokes having hand-jobs, but I'm up for that if you don't mind it. I'm not bothered. You could buy me a drink if you like, 'cos I'm nearly broke, but you don't have to. How old are you? You look older than me, but not much. Oh, and you look shit scared.”

“Yeah.”

“First time out?”

Reluctantly, George nodded. He would have preferred to look a bit cool, but the young lad with the cheeky grin had already seen through him.

“So, what do you want to do? Shall I take you in and show you around or just take you?” He laughed, a perfect, open-mouthed, honest laugh.

“What's your accent? I like it.”

“Manchester. I used to go down Canal Street but I had to run away from home, so I'm down here. But I might go back. So, get on with it, what are we going to do?”

George shrugged, but he stood up. The lad was tall, about his height. This felt good. It felt surprisingly good. He was scared, but getting less scared the more the boy talked. He didn't feel guilty at all. He had nothing to feel guilty about. Harry didn't want him any more. But this guy did. Maybe just for a night, or a few hours even, but it was good to be wanted.

“Whatever you like.”

The boy cocked one eyebrow at him and smirked. “We could go back to your place.”

“No, I share with my brother,” That didn't seem enough of an excuse suddenly, so he added, “He doesn't know.” It made him feel warm to know that wasn't true any more.

“Well, I'm only sleeping on people's floors, so we'll have to find somewhere quiet. Come on then, Red.” Nathan headed backwards to the dark alleyways. George followed. “Can I call you Red or do you have a name?”

“I'm, er ...” a fake name seemed a good idea as the fear washed over him again, but his mind was blank, “I'm George.”

“Nice to meet you, George. I'm Nathan. Where are you from, then?” Nathan ducked behind some large commercial bins, but then said, “Ooops, sorry, excuse us,” to whoever was already there, and backed out again. “Not a sight you want to see,” he told George, taking his arm and steering him swiftly across the road. “The hair on his back!” He pulled a face.

“Right. Oh. Devon.”

“Country boy eh? Up to the big city to see the sights?” Nathan spun round to face George and looked him directly in the face as he asked, “And do you like what you see?”

George chuckled. It was good. He was barely himself without his sense of humour. “So far so good,” he replied, trying to look as cocky as Nathan. “But I haven't seen everything yet.” He lowered his eyes, looking pointedly at Nathan's crotch.

Nathan's colour rose and his eyes flashed. There was no-one around. They were far enough from the club now and the grey buildings rising tall beside them were office buildings, unused at night. George got the feeling, though, that if Nathan had been in a crowded shopping mall, or on the lawn at Buckingham Palace, he would still have grabbed hold of George at that moment and brought their mouths together.

The kiss was wet and forceful. George felt himself being propelled across the road, into a doorway. His back was hard against the glass. This was nothing like the loving, secretive trysts he'd had with Harry. This was so open and Nathan was so sure of himself. He tried to stop thinking about Harry.

“Have you ever been fucked? I'd like to fuck you,” Nathan rasped. His forearm was across George's chest, pushing back, holding him in place against the recess of the building.

“Here?” George was glad he was breathless, otherwise he was sure he would have released a less than manly squeak.

“No. Can't. But I'd like to. Have you?” Then Nathan's mouth was working over George's neck.

“Yeah,” George answered. “Lots of times.” He pulled up Nathan's T-shirt so he could feel his smooth, taut chest.

“Me too. Great, isn't it?”

George's throat was closing over. Nathan's erection pressed against his hip. “Uh huh,” George managed, but he didn't think he was going to be able to keep up the conversation.

Swiftly, Nathan dealt with the zips on both of their jeans and tugged down tight denim. George found his own hands on Nathan's thick cock before he had thought about it. He stroked up hard twice and Nathan groaned.

“Shit! Nice! I was thinking blow job. You got condoms?”

Even if his mind had been working, George wouldn't have had a clue what that meant. Nathan tutted. Then, as he dropped to his knees, he pulled something out of his pocket. He put one into George's hand: a small shiny square something. George watched Nathan expertly opening the packet with his teeth and pulling out something which went straight in his mouth. George thought about puking pastilles for one brief, incoherent moment.

Nathan put his mouth on George's cock and George groaned, only there wasn't the usual wetness. It was hot and close, but not the same. George looked down to see Nathan rolling the condom down his shaft. He still didn't have a clue what was going on, but figured he could work out what to do when it was his turn.

Nathan's blond head moved up and down and he worked his fingers round George's balls. The fear was melting into pleasure. It wasn't just that Nathan knew what he was doing and what he was doing was definitely different from how Harry did it; it wasn't just because Nathan was enthusiastic and good-looking with muscles in all the right places; George was turned on by the whole situation, by the fact they'd known each other fifteen minutes and that they were in a dirty doorway in the street in London.

He pushed his fingers into the thick hair as Nathan moved. He wasn't going to last much longer. He thought about how he would blow this stranger and that made him even more breathless. He would grab those perfect handfuls of smooth, tight buttock, he would lick up the rubbery stuff, tease round the base with his teeth before opening his throat and taking everything down.

His hands were stroking all over Nathan's head now and he wondered if his pubic hair was the same colour or darker. He was trying to hold off the moment of release as long as possible. He caressed Nathan's ear. His brain went into freefall. Was Nathan going to notice George's deformity? Then Nathan rubbed a wet finger over George's arse hole and there was nothing George could do but ride the waves of pleasure, bucking his hips and keening.

He sank to a squat, breathing deeply, letting the focus return. Then he looked up.

“Budge over,” Nathan said with a wink. “My turn. I'm good, aren't I?”


	19. Prior to Percy's Punchline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Angst. Yeah, sorry. We knew it was coming, but it's still horrible. This is it, folks, the big one, the character death that never should have happened. Oh but there will be Harry/George action too, to try to make things up to you. Skip this chapter if you nurture your Dead-Fred-Denial.
> 
>  
> 
> **All characters and situations remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**

Finally some action! Being stuck at Aunt Muriel's place had been driving them up the wall. Wasn't there supposed to be some Light versus Dark war going on? How come lickle Ronnikins got to see some action and his big brothers were being wrapped up in cotton wool? They'd done the training too and they were ready to wave their wands in anger.

Hogwarts. Weird. To be going back there. Still, wherever the Death Eaters were, that's where the twins would go. The Daring Duo, the Invincible Two. Funny having to get in through the Hog's Head, too. They could have done with having that particular passage on the Map when they were pupils. They'd gone to a lot of trouble devising ways to get drunk and get back without being discovered.

It was good to see Ron and Harry and Hermione again, to see that they were safe. It was brilliant, of course, to see Percy. He did have it in him then, he was a true Weasley, he did know how to do the right thing. He even told a joke.

And then ... and then ... and then ....

The world stopped. Reality was inverted. A chasm of emptiness swallowed George's soul. Because it was not possible. The twins had always been together, must always be together. They had shared a womb, a bedroom, a business, a face, a chromosomal code. It was not possible.

*

“It is good of you, Harry.”

“No, no, Mrs Weasley, really.”

“I know how busy you are. Kingsley's got a lot more he wants you to -”

“It can wait. How is he?”

“The radio and the newspapers -”

“Tell me how George is.”

“I'll be frank, Harry. I'm worried. He hasn't spoken for days. He's taken it hard. We all have, of course, but it's different for him.”

“I feel responsible.”

“Don't be so daft! After everything you've done for everyone!”

“But not Fred. It shouldn't have been him.”

“I suppose you could say that about all of them. But I do agree with you. Oh, look, you'll set me off again. Did you get your Muggles out safely?”

“Oh. Yes. I could have done without that, but that's how the Protection was set up, apparently. I wish I'd been here sooner. Where is George?”

Molly sighed deeply. “He's in their room, the one they had as children. And while I'm glad he's here where we can all keep an eye on him, I'm not sure it's healthy to be, you know, dwelling on things. He hasn't spoken to anyone. Not since we got back here. He doesn't eat. Only leaves the room to use the bathroom.”

“Can I try?”

“Be my guest, dear. Please do. Only, Harry, don't be too disappointed if he ignores you, too. You can't save everyone from everything.”

Harry climbed the stairs he had known in happier times so well. When he saw the door to the twins' room he couldn't help, in spite of everything, feeling a little tingle as he remembered the summer he's slept there. It seemed as though it had happened a long time ago, or maybe to someone else. He knocked on the wood. There was no reply.

“George. It's me, Harry. Can I come in please?”

Nothing. Harry tried the handle but it didn't move.

“George! Please! I want, need to see you. I mean, I'm sorry. I mean, just, please. I'm worried about you. Just let me in. Please.”

He knocked on the door again. Which was pointless, because if George hadn't heard him shouting, then he wouldn't hear that. Only Harry was fairly sure he had heard. Harry banged his head against the wood. He was so tired, so bloody tired.

“Please let me see you,” he whispered.

He stood silently for half a minute. Then there was the clunking sound of a ward falling. When he tried the door handle, it shifted and he entered the dark room.

The curtains were drawn. Both beds were made. On the floor between them lay George, curled up, his face hidden in his hands.

“How are you? Sorry, stupid question. I can see. And how else would you be. I'm so sorry. I don't suppose it helps but I am. I wish I could make it better.” Harry closed the door behind him and put up new locking spells. “I thought everything would be better when Voldemort was dead. I thought that was all I had to do. I missed you so much. I've thought about you so often this year.”

“We never had secrets.” George cracked voice emerged from the bundle of man.

Harry took a step towards him, round the end of Fred's bed. “I know. You were so close.”

“Except that one. About you.”

“That was my fault.”

“Yes.”

Harry felt his eyes fill. He didn't know what to say.

“I'm sorry,” he tried. “I can't change that. I wish I could change a lot of things.”

He squatted down, but George still didn't look at him.

“When Sirius died -” Harry began.

“It's not the same!” George interrupted.

“Of course not. I know. I was just going to say that you were such a support to me then. I wish I could be the same for you now.”

George said nothing. If anything he curled further into himself.

“I thought if I survived then I'd be able to go back to you and everything would be ... good.”

Suddenly George reared up, pushed himself to kneeling in a surge of anger. “Oh, I've got you back now, have I?”

“If you want me,” Harry breathed.

“Now it's convenient, now it suits the Greater Good, does it? And will we still be sneaking around, lying to friends and family?”

“Up to you. However you want it.”

They stared at each other for a moment, then George's lips trembled and he hung his head. Harry crossed the tiny pace between them and put his arms round George's shoulders. George leaned into the touch and Harry held tight to his shaking shoulders.

“Missed you so much, Harry,” he mumbled, “love you so much. Don't leave me again.”

“Never leave you again.” Harry promised. He kissed George gently on the blackened hole where his ear had been.

George's tear-salted lips found Harry's.


	20. The Tale of the Two Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

George's tear-salted lips found Harry's. Harry's tongue pushed through them to touch George's. The world disappeared. There was no past or future, no objects or people beyond this room, no time, no light, no magic. Then George grabbed Harry's hair and toppled them both over so that they lay on the floor and then even the bedroom disappeared. There were two bodies and even they only existed at the hot, wet points where they made contact.

 

Their clothes fell. Naked chests rubbed against each other. Harry's mouth found George's nipple, sucked it and nibbled it. George's hands stroked patterns across the smooth, brown back he had missed so badly, cupping the space under one shoulder blade, remembering this body. He could feel Harry's cock - hard, hot and sticky - against his inner thigh. He turned, panting, sliding in their mixed sweat, reaching for that cock.

 

He was distracted by tight, pale buttocks. He placed his knuckles against their dimples, his tongue onto the hot skin of them.

 

“Fuck! Fuck me! Fuck!” Harry's grunted words reached him and, gradually, his mind pieced meaning out of them.

 

“Fuck you?” George asked.

 

“Now!”

 

Harry was desperate. For too many months he had been untouched inside. He needed George to burn him and fill him and shove in hard. George's dry finger made him yelp. He tried to bring the room back into focus, to remember, think through. They needed lube. He needed it now. He needed pressure without pain.

 

George could picture the tube, almost feel the shape of it in his palm. He was fighting against the lust to recall. The KY was in a pocket. The pocket was in a jacket. His 'pulling' jacket. He crawled reluctantly away from the familiar heat, smells, textures, shapes of the body he had missed so hard. He dredged through his barely functioning brain: which of the trunks that they had taken to Muriel's and she had sent on here, was that jacket in?

 

Scrabbling frantically, uncoordinated, he found it. As he leapt back to Harry's waiting nakedness he had a brief moment of lucidity. He hoped Harry wouldn't want to know why he had been carrying lube round with him. Then Harry stood up, grabbing his shoulders, pressing their mouths and their ribs and their groins together and all lucidity disappeared.

 

They fell onto a bed, rolling one way and then the other, finding different ways to fit – old remembered ways – sliding fingers into crevices. Both on their sides, facing each other, Harry's knee lifted onto George's waist. George slicked his fingers, reached them round and down. He circled, teasingly, then pushed in.

 

The wet heat of flesh round him was like heaven and home at the same time. Harry released a satisfied moan and George realised that he had been holding his own breath. He breathed in time to the movement of his hand. He couldn't believe how tight the muscle gripped him. It eased and George's hand settled into its own well-practiced rhythm of preparation. Then George's pelvis adjusted itself and he pulled his fingers out of Harry and eased his aching, sticky prick in.

 

Harry sighed and they looked at each other, gazing into one another's eyes, gentle grins slipping onto both of their faces. Harry tipped his head forward and pecked a soft kiss onto the end of George's long, freckled nose. Slowly, George pulled back, then jerked back in and Harry closed his eyes. George changed his angle, only a little, but now he knew it was exactly right. He thrust in slightly harder this time.

 

He was rewarded with a deep gasp and Harry's forehead lined round his scar, he bit at his lower lip and the flush on his skin deepened. These signs were so recognisable, yet George hadn't even been aware of knowing them. His hips set up a steady rhythm of their own and his grunts and moans joined those of his lover.

 

“Oh yes, oh hell, yes, right, oh shit, that's it!”

 

George remembered, Harry always talked, called out like this. He was happy. They were both happy, they were back together. George stopped existing beyond his crotch and his hips and the places on his back where Harry was scratching and his mouth which had latched itself onto Harry's neck.

 

“More, deeper, more!”

 

George tried once, slipping, twice, then he grasped Harry's knees and flipped him onto his back. Harry's feet lifted, shoved up, and then rested on George's shoulders. George slammed in and Harry rose to meet him. This was deep. This was everything and for ever. All the colours of life wavered and faded, intensified and bled into each other. George's fist closed around the cotton of bedding and the tension tightened inside him.

 

Harry lay back, matching George's thrusts, letting himself be massaged at his very core, all responsibility and fear irrelevant, every worry wiped, every grief blanked out. The only emotion was intense pleasure. He finally felt comfortable. He looked up at the expression on George's face, reached his hand up to stroke fingertips on the flushed, sweating, slack cheek. His skin seemed to turn in on itself.

 

Then George's hand took hold of Harry's shaft and he released in wave after wave of joy, jerking forward, spraying ten months' worth of come over them both, every muscle in his body undulating.

 

As his bones melted into deep relaxation, he heard George's choked hiccup and his chest tightened with love. George collapsed on top of him, breathing hard. Harry became aware of how raw his throat felt and realised that he must have been screaming.

 

“George,” he whispered.

 

George lifted his head slightly and gave Harry an exhausted, sloppy kiss on the chin.

 

“I love you,” Harry said.

 

“Love you too,” George mumbled, slithering down to lie beside him. “You're back.”


	21. Skipping Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Sorry, sorry, sorry. This is so slow between updates! My kids are back at school now, though, and I intend to start motoring along with this fic in a higher gear. It's nowhere near finished. As they said of the First World War, “It'll all be over by Christmas.” Of course they were wrong and I can't be sure about me! Maybe some dirty smuttiness will help you to forgive me?_ **All characters and situations remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**
> 
>  **Warnings (promises):** Smut. Fellatio. Rimming.

They fell easily into their old nocturnal routine. More easily than before, in fact, because now Harry didn't have to wait for Ron to fall asleep, because he was slipping out of their shared room every night to meet up with Hermione. As soon as he was out of earshot, Harry would cast muffling charms on himself, spying spells on his surroundings, don his invisibility cloak and head off to the twins' old room, the one with the two single beds in it: one laying empty, a shrine to Fred, the other transfigured nightly to twice its size out of devotion to George's love.

 

Every night one of the young men who slept there would ask the other, “Is it still too soon?” Harry asked as often as George did. They were both equally keen for acceptance and openness now. There was always some reason to wait. One or other of them would have seen some strain in someone they loved, some vulnerability which needed to be protected.

 

“They don't need anything else to deal with at the moment, there's enough going on.”

 

They didn't know how news of their relationship was going to be received. “What if we just start small. Start with Hermione?”

 

But it would be unfair to make her keep the secret from Ron, to make him lie to his mother, to have her burdened with worrying about Ginny's reaction when she was already carrying so much.

 

“There are so many journalists sniffing around these days, that we need to be ready to face everybody as soon as we tell anybody.”

 

“What if we get caught, though. What if it's front-page news? They can't find out that way.”

 

Every night they had soul-scorching sex followed by the same conversation. They never reached a conclusion and went into yet another day when their love would be unacknowledged.

 

'One morning,' Harry thought, 'Ron and I are going to meet each other sneaking back into bed.' It hadn't happened yet though. That would be embarrassing - Ron flustered, unaware that Harry knew exactly who he spent his nights with and was glad that both of his best friends were happy, then Ron horrified probably, shocked definitely, as Harry stammered out the truth of his own bed mate. At least it would be out there, though. At least that would kick-start the frightening process of revelation.

 

Ron's bed was still empty this morning and there was no sign of him on the stairs or the landing outside their room. Harry got under his cold bedding and dozed off. He woke to sunshine and a tapping noise on his door.

 

Rubbing his eyes he called, “Yeah? What? C'min.”

 

George's radiant face looked round the door, a smirk quirking his lips, a twinkle in his eyes.

 

“Morning, Gorgeous!”

 

George's hair was damp and he was wearing a towelling robe. Harry grinned, but he shushed him.

 

“Can I come in?” George leaned forward, making the dressing gown gape, exposing more of his amber chest hair, his softly curving pectorals.

 

Harry hesitated. He sat up.

 

“They're all busy,” George explained. “Bill and Fleur turned up for breakfast. I snuck out, but nobody else managed to escape.” He entered the room and closed the door behind him. “Like wasps in a sugar trap! I thought it might be an opportunity.” He licked his lips.

 

Harry groped around for his wand, but his lover beat him to it, casting silencing and locking wards. Harry spelled the curtains to swish open instead, throwing golden sunlight onto the bed.

 

“Doing it in daylight, eh?” he asked lasciviously. “You pervert!”

 

The light made a halo of George's hair, cast bright patches onto his cheeks and hands. Harry pulled at the belt knotted at his waist and it fell onto the bedspread, opening the threadbare blueish towelling, exposing a vertical stripe of naked flesh. George's cock bounced, half-hardened, in its nest of ginger curls. Then George pushed against Harry's naked shoulder and lay him back down on the bed. He pulled away the bed linen with one hand, keeping the other flattened, pressing down, in the centre of Harry's chest.

 

It was his teeth he used to grab onto the elasticated waist of Harry's pyjamas, slowly he pulled at it, tugging it down over the rising erection. Harry watched the glistening tip of George's tongue emerge, teasingly slowly, from his mouth. He wished he could see so much every time they made love: the true colour of George's irises as he made eye contact, the warm orange of light glowing through George's one ear, the slight ginger stubble along his jawline. Then George pressed that tensed tongue to the place where Harry's foreskin met the underseam of his cock.

 

Much as he wanted to keep watching, Harry was forced to close his eyes. George's tongue tip explored his most sensitive parts, leaving long, tormenting pauses between each touch. The air cooled the spots of saliva, shrivelling the skin, sending shivers which reverberated along every nerve in Harry's body.

 

“Shit! Stop! You bastard just -”

 

George popped Harry's cock head into his mouth and gave a hard suck. Harry screeched. George's tongue flattened and wriggled, working its way under the folds of foreskin. Finally his hand made contact with the shaft, wrapping his fingers loosely round it. Then he slowly lapped its length, from the slit, down the seam, between the nuts, along the perineum, carrying on down to Harry's pucker. But he didn't stop there, pushing up Harry's knees and levering him off the bed, he continued his warm, wet journey between buttocks and up to the bottom of Harry's spine.

 

“What the fuck? You drive me ... Im gonna go ...” The heat, the hunger, the itch, rising like fire across Harry's skin and deep in his belly was unbearable. “Bastard! I'm gonna end up totally Lockheart if you don't get on with it!”

 

Instead of doing anything useful, though, George just scraped his teeth across Harry's left buttock. Squirming with frustration, Harry kicked out, caught George's shoulder and to both their surprises, George fell off the bed.

 

It took the redhead longer to recover his bearings and his partner took full advantage, launching himself onto the floor after him, pyjama trousers flapping off one ankle, pushing the bath robe down his lover's arms and onto the floor, latching his lips onto a pert pink nipple.

 

George did come to his senses then, remembering his plan to tease Harry to screaming point before finally fucking him into the wall. This attack on his own torso was not part of the plan. He needed to free himself and get back in control. Unsteadily, George stood up. Harry stayed on the floor, on his knees. His mouth still attached to George, nibbling and sucking down his flat, muscular abdomen as it moved upwards against Harry's contact. Harry clamped his hands onto George's arse and held him firm, opened his mouth wide and closed it over as much of his cock as he could manage. He sucked strongly and bobbed his head a couple of times before pulling away and breathlessly saying, “Like that!”

 

They both held position and took some steadying breaths before George answered, “I'm sorry, I'm not sure I've got that. I think you might have to show me again.”

 

Harry chuckled, loosening his grip and letting his thumbs rub lightly on the other man's skin.

 

“Well, you see, you were farting around like this.” He stuck out his tongue, hardening it to a point.

 

“Oh, you bastard,” George groaned, knowing what was coming, knowing he deserved it.

 

Harry had to free one of his hands to press it against his own aching erection, but he kept going. He mimicked George's earlier actions, tapping his tongue tip at the crease. He felt a tug on his hair as George tried to direct his head further on. 'Why didn't I think of that?' Harry wondered. Nails scratched at his scalp and they tussled for control. Harry kept his lips firmly round his own tongue though.

 

He traced the path along George's seam from slit to balls, at which point, with a deep groan, George surrendered and let go of Harry's head. Harry knelt down, curving his back and tilting his head to he could shuffle under George, between his legs, tongue up, across the flatness of the taint. Then he pulled his tongue back into his mouth to re-moisten it, while he turned round. Snaking a hand across over-sensitised skin, he took hold of his lover's cock in one hand, his own in the other, and licked up from perineum to arsehole.

 

Thus it was that Harry Potter, the saviour of the Wizarding World, The Boy Who Lived Twice, hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, had his face squeezed between two tight but quivering bum cheeks when the knocking started at the door.


	22. A Decision Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**
> 
> **Warnings:** Smut. Rimming (I've put %&*% at the beginning and end of the relevant paragraphs, so if this squicks you, you can skip it).
> 
>  **Author's Note:** _Getting the kids back to school was supposed to give me more writing time, but what it has done, unfortunately, is brought in a new cocktail of germs for us to pass around. Nothing big, just sniffles and tummy bugs, but we all have to have a go at whatever is going round everybody else's school/playgroup/whatever. We are a generous, sharing family like that._
> 
> So, sorry it's late (again) and I am really sorry that I haven't replied to reviews. It is very rude. I want to thank everyone who took the trouble to review, to set an alert or mark this or me as a favourite. Every e-mail gives me a warm glow.
> 
> What I have managed to do (with my brain too fugged for creating, but awake enough for reading) is to read this story so far. Blimey! It's a bit long! How did that happen? Hats off to readers who have come to this recently for getting through so much all at once!

Thus it was that George Weasley, hero of the Battle of Hogwarts, grieving twin, entrepreneur on hiatus, Charms genius and prankster had a face squeezed between his bum cheeks when the knocking started at the door. They both froze. They waited. There were three sharp raps, a shot pause, two hard bangs, then silence. They waited.

Harry flicked his tongue forward. George shoved the base of his thumb between his teeth to stifle a moan. Slowly, Harry's hands began to move again, to slide up and down both of their cocks.

There was another knock.

They stilled and waited.

Then a tattoo of taps and finally there was a voice.

“Harry, are you in there?” Ginny called.

Harry's grip loosened.

“Look, Harry, I just want to talk to you!” She knocked on the door again. 

Harry sat back on his feet and let his hands fall onto his lap. George twisted round to look at him. He didn't like the expression he saw.

“Harry, I've hardly seen you. I think we should talk. Where are you? I just want to know – oh fuck it! I'm not doing this through a door!”

Then, as she pounded on the wood, George sank onto the bed. He watched his lover, but Harry was staring at the door.

“Wake up!” Then there was a louder, sharper sound as though the door had been kicked. “Fuck it!” Ginny said again. They listened in silence to her steps on the stairs.

When it was quiet, George said, “You're not going to, are you?”

Harry looked up, looked at him, puzzled.

“You're not going to talk to her.”

Harry moved up to sit on the bed, hands between his thighs, staring at the door. His erection was softening. George wanted to think that the sound of his sister's voice had done that. He gazed, desperately, at the naked young man beside him and lost none of his arousal.

After a painful pause, Harry said, “Yeah. I'm going to talk to her. Listen to her.” He looked at George. “I'll tell her. Tell her first. Should have been obvious. She's the one who deserves to be told first.”

“About us?” George checked in a whisper. Harry nodded. “Do you want me to be there?”

“Er. No. Do you want to?”

“Merlin! No!” George sighed with relief. “But if you wanted the support.”

Harry shook his head. “I'll say it just happened, though.” He rubbed at the scars on the back of his hand. “She doesn't need to know how long we've been ...” He trailed off, nervously stroking his forehead now.

“Been what?”

“You know what.” 

“Sometimes I don't.”

Harry breathed out hard and shook his head. He looked straight at George. “In love. That's what. Now, where was I?”

“I think you were just about to rim me.”

“To what?” 

George wondered how he knew that term if Harry didn't. “Er, your tongue was, erm ...”

Harry's face broke into a grin. “Oh, yes. It's all coming back to me. Did you remember the silencing charm?”

“Do you think I'm an amateur?”

“Good. Because I plan to make you scream!”

“Oh yeah?”

Harry lunged forward and grasped the head of George's cock suddenly, swallowing the resulting guttural noise in a deep kiss. He shoved George down onto the bed and onto his front. Harry took hold of his lover's hips, wrenching them up. George shuffled upwards, tucking his knees under him, pressing his face into the pillow as his throat closed over. Painfully slowly, Harry spread his palms over tight, pale buttocks, stroking his fingers into the dimples, then spreading them apart.

%&*% Harry focussed on the bruise-coloured pucker at the centre of his vision. He licked his lips, then pointed his tongue. He tasted the iron flavour of blood near the surface of the skin. He licked harder, put his whole mouth over and sucked, then pulled back to look again. %&*%

%&*% He slid his thumbs into the valley, towards George's arsehole, gently, slowly, enjoying the sight, ignoring the frustrated moan below him. His thumbs opened George up as Harry slid his tongue back, then just a little way in. He massaged and lapped, then pulled back once more. The white of George's skin framed the duskier, darker circle, and now he could see inside that, the promising deep red flesh. %&*% 

%&*% George squirmed with delight as his overheated arousal was soothed by the insertion of a probing slippery tongue, deeper and deeper inside him. %&*% 

Harry groped around for the hair gel he knew was beside his bed somewhere, the hair gel which never managed to flatten his wild mop when he needed it to look polite. It was cold on his cock, then George's tight channel was burning hot. He pushed in as slowly as he could, but he was already on the edge, familiar quiverings warning him that he wouldn't last too long.

He held George's hips still and pounded into him, slamming hard, thrusting deep. He was too breathless to 'whoop' out loud when he heard George screaming, then hiccupping, then felt him clamp round him in waves, watched the goosebumps spreading over his back and arms. Then the dam burst inside him and Harry was coming hard too.


	23. Silver Lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

Bill and Fleur had gone by the time Harry made it down to the kitchen, but they had left a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ behind. Ron and Hermione were sitting close together, reading it.

“Anything good in there?” Harry asked, and they both sprang upright, putting distance between them. “You two snuggle up, don't mind me.” He meant it.

“Ginny was looking for you, mate,” said Ron.

Harry shrugged and poured himself a mug of tea from the pot that was always in the middle of the table.

“You'd think Rita Skeeter would have learnt by now,” Hermione tutted.

“I think it's funny. Look, Harry.”

“Ronald! Don't show him! You have no sense! Harry just wants to be left alone in peace!”

“But if everyone else knows what she's saying about him ...”

Harry pulled the paper towards him. The headline was **THE BOY WHO LOVES** and he remembered George predicting those words, or words like them, in the park that day. He remembered the smell of cigarette and leather on George's jacket, and the awkwardness between them then, and how aware he had been of George's thigh in his tight denim, just inches away.

The photos in the paper weren't of him and George though. The big one in the centre of the double-page spread was a portion taken from the old Gryyfindor Quidditch Team official photo. Occasionally the limbs or brooms of other players would nudge into view at the edges, but it was himself and Ginny who were being shown, smiling with their arms round each other. It hadn't been taken all that long ago, but he hardly remembered being that boy. He looked happy, but all Harry could recall from that time was the fear and the anxiety, the knowledge of the Dark Magic which had to be survived and extinguished.

There was a smaller, blurry shot of the two of them sitting on some grass together, with the credit written underneath: 'The Creevey Estate'. That must have been taken during the summer term they had spent together – was it only last summer? There was an even more grainy shot, the only recent one, of the garden at the Burrow, the two of them sitting near the compost. Percy and Hermione had been there too, but they weren't in the picture. It must have been taken with some kind of magnifying lens. Harry didn't know much about cameras.

He glanced up. Hermione was looking at him anxiously. He looked back to the text before she could say anything.

“Harry Potter, the saviour of the...” blah blah blah “...may have an announcement to make soon, sources close to the...” blah blah “...he and Miss Ginevra Weasley, a heroine of the Hogwarts Resistance and stunningly beautiful...” really? Pretty, yeah, but not that. Then there were some inaccurate ages and heights and even a bra size. What was that about an announcement? “...friends confidently predict an engagement...” No! “...we wish the couple every happiness...” not a couple, who thought they were? “The Boy Who Lived deserves every happiness after all he has done for the whole Wizarding World...” it would make him happiest to be left alone “...Let us hope that he can become the Man Who Loves and is Loved...” mind your own business “...and that in time, we will have the blessings of his children to lead us for many years...” What? “...this young couple stand as a beacon of hope for the community, a sign that the Dark days are behind us, a symbol of the golden future we all hope for as we struggle to rebuild...” He couldn't read any more. He pushed the paper away from him.

Hadn't he done everything he was supposed to do? Wasn't the rest of his life going to be his own? He knew that a lot of people were doing a lot of good work, trying to repair the damage Voldemort had done. Shacklebolt kept taking Harry to meet them, to encourage them. He kept attending funerals, too, where those grieving would tell him what strength they took from his being there, how much hope he gave them for the future.

Hope. He was the figurehead for everyone's hope. And they all needed him to get married and have babies. His stomach dropped.

“What are you reading that bollocks for?” George stood in the doorway. His face was a blank, except for the set line of his mouth.

“He needs to know what's being written about him if everyone else does!” Ron replied.

“I'm off to nick eggs. I need the whites for a Wheeze.”

“For the shop?” Hermione asked, surprised.

“I got an idea. I'm off to work on it at the flat. The equipment's there. I was thinking I might open up for business again next week. Maybe.”

“That's brilliant, mate!” Ron smiled broadly.

“Maybe,” George repeated.

Harry managed to sneak into the chicken shed to join him twenty minutes later. George glanced at him briefly before continuing his search for eggs.

“You're not taking that Skeeter woman seriously, are you?” he asked Harry without looking at him.

“Of course not.”

“You've done your bit. Let somebody else take on the expectations.” He bent down to check the deep straw on the floor.

“I know. I know.”

“You just saved all their arses. You died for them. If there was ever a time in your life when you should be allowed to do whatever the fuck you want -”

“I know. Yeah.”

“We should just tell everyone.”

“We can't now.”

“What?” George knocked his head on one of the perches as he shot upright.

“We can. But not now. That's what I meant.”

“Why not?”

“'Cos everyone's having a hard time and if thinking that shit's true makes life a bit brighter -”

“I could see this all over your face when you were reading that rag. Stop caring about other people! You can't save them from being sad by fucking your life over! You deserve to be happy, too!”

“I know. I know.”

“They'll get over it! So what if their golden boy is a faggot? It's not going to bring The Dark Lord back! You've spent the whole of your life doing what other people told you to do -”

“That's not true!”

“Well, what they needed, saving everyone. What about me? What about you? Fuck the rest of them!”

“Yeah. Yeah. I know. It just means we need to wait a bit longer. That's all. That's all I'm saying. It makes them feel safe, thinking I'm some strong hero or something. So let them.”

“And screwing me makes you weak?”

“No.”

“You think it makes you look weak?”

“No. I don't know. You're re-opening the shop?”

“I might do.” George stared into an empty laying box.

“If you're up to it, it would be good.”

“I was thinking of moving back into the flat.”

“That would make sense.”

“You could move in with me.”

Harry didn't answer. After a minute or so of silence, he backed out of the shed. He didn't know what to think. He didn't know how anyone would react. He was tired of George telling him not to care.

He saw a movement at the front of the house. There was a familiar figure in a little hat, with a big stick and a distinctive stride. What did Shacklebolt need now? Harry couldn't face him, so he edged away through the blackcurrant canes.

“There you are!”

Harry didn't need to look round. Ginny was the other person he'd been avoiding.

“I've been looking for you. Can we talk?”

“I was just ...” Ginny or Kingsley? He would have to talk to Ginny sometime. “Just hiding from the Minister of Magic, actually.”

“You don't fancy any adulation today?”

Harry laughed. He couldn't help it. She smiled back. “Where do you want to talk?” he asked.

She lead him round the house to a tall, old tree. “It's where I used to hide out when I was little.”

She pointed at a spot high up where the trunk divided, splitting into two thick branches. Harry scrambled his way up and along one of them, then planted a leg on either side and watched her make her way up. She was much faster and more graceful than he had been. She shunted herself up the other branch and faced him.

“I was waiting,” she said, “for you to come and see me. It's been weeks since the Battle. When you headed off with Ron and Hermione after it, I figured you had things to do still.”

“Yeah, we went up to Dumbledore's office.”

“Ok. But that was weeks ago.”

“Shacklebolt -”

“I know. Then Mum wanted you to cheer George up. And you did a brilliant job of that. It's just that I thought you might ... I mean I kept expecting you to -”

“Look, Ginny, I have to tell you -”

She raised a hand. He stopped talking. Gratefully. He really wasn't looking forward to telling her this, to watching the pain playing over her face, to seeing her bravely sniffing back tears and to knowing that he had made her sad. She was one of his best friends after all.

“I have things to say,” she said. “I want you to think about them. I don't want any answers now. I need your honest, considered reaction. Take some time. Think things through.”

“Right.” Harry was relieved.

She looked into his face and said, “I was upset when you ended our relationship. But I understood. Being your girlfriend was the best time, the most brilliant thing. I think you were happy then too. All the time we were apart, it was the thought of you, the knowledge that we would be together when the war ended, that kept me going. The hope made me strong. It made the world a place worth fighting for. I missed you, I thought about you all that time, for all those months. Some of my friends told me to try dating other people. But I couldn't. None of them were you. You've had a hell of a time. You have had hell. It takes time to recover. I was just wondering how much longer? I want to make things normal again. I'm going to go now and as much as I want to, I won't try to kiss you or anything. That's why I wanted us sitting on separate branches. So I don't have to fight the need to hold you.”

Harry watched the top of her pretty ginger head as she climbed away and then ran into the house. He knew she was the wrong redhead. He knew he should have said something. He sat in the tree, pondering, until he heard Shacklebolt leaving about half an hour later.

When he got into the house there was a lot of flustering going on. Apparently his presence was required that evening for a formal dinner, that was why the Minster had been there. He tried to cry off, but Hermione was insistent.

“The Wizengamut are about to discuss Creature Rights!”

“That's great, but they don't need me.”

“Yes they do! They want you to tell Dobby's story!”

“Dobby?”

“Come on, mate, I know it's going to be dull,” Ron added, “but this is what S.P.E.W. was all about. You could actually make them change things.”

Harry glared at his best friend, pretty sure his opinions had more to do with the contents of Hermione's knickers than real concern for House Elf Rights.

“It's a very big occasion!” Molly twittered. “Everyone's going to be there.”

Harry groaned. “I've got nothing to wear to a formal dinner!' he protested.

Molly looked very serious then. Very serious indeed. “I'm sure we can find you something.”

Harry thought of Ron's dress robes and shook his head.

Mrs Weasley took a deep breath. “Fred had some lovely clothes. Some he never got to wear. I remember seeing them in his trunk at Muriel's. There are shirts still in their packaging. We'll shrink them to fit you.”

There was a thick silence in the room.

“How will George be about that?” Ginny asked.

“He's working at the shop all day, but I'll Floo him and check,” Molly replied. “It just seems such a shame for Fred's things to go to waste. He loved buying new clothes. He would have wanted someone to get the wear out of them.” One tear slipped from the edge of her eye, down the otherwise brave face she was putting on. “His things are all muddled up with George's.”

“I'll help you go through the trunks,” Ron offered.

“Thanks, mate,” Harry mumbled.

The two of them started up the stairs as Molly fumbled with the Floo powder.

Harry didn't know how to refuse this generous, heart-breaking offer. She was right, though, Fred would have wanted his clothes to have been worn. How he would have felt about Harry campaigning for House Elf equality in them, wasn't so clear.

They walked into the twins' bedroom and stared at the pile of trunks along the one wall. Ron looked down at Fred's cold, empty bed. He looked ashen. Harry realised that though he had got used to it, Ron hadn't seen it since its owner's death. Ron was swaying slightly.

“You don't have to do this, mate,” Harry said.

When George got back an hour later, Ron was staring into a mug of cocoa and Hermione was stroking his hair. George had been working well until his mother's Head Floo. He thought it was a good idea for Harry to wear Fred's clothes. There was a particularly nice green suit that had only been worn twice. It was just that he found he couldn't concentrate after that. He was assailed by memories of Fred again.

He went up to his bedroom. He wanted to find Harry in there, wanted to hold him. He didn't want to find him holding a pair of dragon-skin trousers, though, shaking them and staring at the condom packets which came tumbling out onto the floor. Harry's face was thunderous as it turned towards George. George quickly walked in and shut the door behind him.

“What?” Harry asked.

“They are con-”

“I know what they are! We never used them! We didn't need to. Did we?”

“They're Fred's trousers. We had identical -”

Harry raised a shaky finger, “Don't you dare try to hide behind Fred! He was buried in his! How can you -?”

“I didn't know what was going to happen! You weren't around!” George didn't care if the desperation was apparent in his voice.

“So you fucked some Muggle?”

“I thought I wasn't going to see you again! I missed you!”

“I missed you! I didn't start up with someone else!”

“You were in the middle of nowhere most of the time. I was in the centre of London. It's so easy there!”

“I wouldn't have done it wherever I was! No matter how _easy_ it was! Who was he? Where is he now? Are you still seeing him? What did you tell him? Is he waiting around for you to get tired of me?”

“It wasn't like that!”

“It is a 'him'? It's not some Muggle bird who was scared of getting pregnant?”

“Don't be stupid!” George spat.

“Are you still in love with him?”

“It wasn't like that!” George repeated, exasperated and angry and terrified. “I couldn't have had a relationship with anyone, not when I was still in love with you. But I didn't know what was going to happen. I thought we were over! I just picked up some men in some clubs.”

“Some? How many?” Harry looked devastated.

George felt close to tears as he whispered, “Four.” He wanted to add that it had been crap, that they hadn't filled the hole Harry left, that he hadn't enjoyed himself at all. He knew full well, though, that if they had stayed in London longer then that number would have been higher.

There was a silence. George waited for Harry's reaction. The argument had left them both breathing heavily and that was the only sound in the room as Harry leant forward to pick up one of the shiny square packets. He turned it over in his hand.

“I would have given you everything. I would have risked losing everyone else's respect, hurting people, taking all the flack -” Harry said slowly and quietly.

“And me. We'll be together. We'll have each other.”

“I'll be the one in the papers, being condemned on the radio, I'll be the big disappointment.” Harry threw the condom onto the floor with a look of disgust. “I would have taken it for you. You couldn't even go without sex for a couple of months!”

The few feet of floor with Fred's bed at the centre of it was all that lay between them. It felt like an endless desert. Harry stared at the condoms and George watched him.

Into the silence, George said, “I love you.”

Harry did not answer.


	24. Golden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's secret love affair with Harry Potter over many years.

Tan brown nipples hardened under the strong twist of fingers which knew them well. The golden evening sun of June streamed in through the open window to tint the two bodies on the bed. Large, sinuous hands stroked over dark curls as they grew across chest muscles and down the twitching, flat abdomen to the gathering of thick hair at the base of Harry's stiffening cock.

They had both been thinking about this all day, driving George through the chaotic motions of the busy shop, helping Harry face the tedium of paperwork. Now they had made it to the bed in the flat above the shop where their bodies could slide over each other until the slick heat rose to fury and then exploded out of them.

George knew exactly which swipe of his tongue would make his lover buck, which press of his fingers and twist of his palm, could make him moan. He almost knew the exact swear words he would use.

So when Harry grabbed him by the hair and brought their mouths together, he knew by the way his tongue moved and the duration of the kiss, that when they broke apart Harry would whisper, “Need this, need you.”

They lay side by side, pelvises thrusting into each other, Harry caressing the dark, gnarled skin at the side of George's head, George rubbing lightly with his thumb at Harry's forehead.

“Want you, want to feel you inside me tonight,” Harry whimpered. But George had already known that was the way things were going to be this time.

George lifted Harry's knees onto his shoulders, loving the weight of the thick, muscular, man thighs at his sides, covered in thick black hairs, so different from their first time. This was not a child any more. George could still feel guilty sometimes, though, still berate himself for having seduced his kid brother's best mate.

There were two different lubes on the bedside table. They each had their preferences. George still liked the Muggle stuff. It felt like passion in alleyways and against urinals, of the rush of the first touch of a stranger. 

George and Harry's fingers together made wet circles on Harry's skin, then pushed into his heat, eased the ring of muscle. George found his angle immediately and watched the familiar flush rush across Harry's neck, spreading from there to the rest of his skin. He pushed his throbbing cock in slowly enough to make Harry grind and jerk under him, beg him.

“Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”

Then he pulled out again, almost as slowly and, just before he drove The Man Who Still Lived completely mad, he shoved back in and set up a steady, solid fucking rhythm. Hot breath panted onto his face, perspiration sheening them both, finger clutched and Harry's cock rubbed against his belly, leaking pre-come to smear into the sweat and tangle with their body hair.

“Oh yes, oh hell, yes, right, oh shit, that's it!” 

He felt his muscles heat and tingle, felt the orgasm rising in him, but he held off until Harry's hand slipped off his buttock and moved to grasp his own cock. George took over, pulling up firmly, synchronising his hips and his fist, his eyes watering.

Then Harry called out “Fuck! Merlin! Fuck!” as George hiccupped and he pumped his release into Harry, as Harry shot cream over both of them, then shot again, then there was one last pulsation as George collapsed onto him.

The sun was a little lower, a little closer to the roofs which were the only view out of the back window of the flat. The two men were shiny and golden, covered in each other's fluids: saliva, sweat and come. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the room for a while.

Staring at the ceiling, George asked, “When are we going to stop doing this?”

Harry frowned. “Why would we stop?”

“Well, you're married to my sister and she's expecting your second child. Some people might think this would be a good time to stop.”

“I don't want to stop.”

Harry rolled over onto all-fours, climbing over his lover to get to the shower, dipping his head for a kiss on the way.

“What if we get caught?” George asked.

“Why would we get caught? We never get caught.”

George lay still and watched Harry's bare back, his bare arse, his bare feet as he walked to the bathroom. From there he would dress and Apparate home to his family cottage, a little bit late from work, which he had left a little bit early. 


	25. Red Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Author's Note** : I've nearly finished the script I had to get written by the end of the month, it just needs reading through and editing now. So, my reward to myself is to write the next chapter of this! I've missed it. I hope you've missed it too, but not too much! Sorry for the wait. 
> 
>  
> 
> The chapter title is the name of a drink I used to love as a student – half a pint of lager, half a pint of cider, Pernod and blackcurrant. Delicious but deadly! I don't think I could manage one these days. I'm not recommending it to anyone, just explaining the title. It's the name of a drink, The chapter's set in a pub.
> 
> **Warnings: Mild violence. Mild drunkenness. Mild het.**

Ginny bent her swollen body over the cot.

 

“He's not asleep yet,” she whispered.

 

“We'll be fine, won't we James?” her mother cooed at the heavy-lidded toddler fiddling with his fluffy toy wrackspurt.

 

“I don't want you getting him out again and playing with him like last time!”

 

Molly avoided her eye.

 

“Mum!” Ginny's voice was low and dangerous.

 

“He woke up and he wouldn't settle. I do know what I'm doing. Now, I can see that Harry's anxious to get going.”

 

Harry was indeed keen to leave the house. It wasn't so much that he was anxious, it was more that he had been standing, ready, in the same position for fortyfive minutes while the women fussed and he was bored rigid.

 

“We don't want to be the last ones there.” He said in what he hoped was a mild tone.

 

“Why not?” Ginny snapped, straightening up too quickly and then wincing at the ache in her back.

 

“Well, you need a seat. The pub fills up. Don't you want to see Hermione? And Luna? The three of you can swap digestive symptoms like last time.” Harry pulled a face.

 

“And poor Harry can talk to people who aren't pregnant for a change. Isn't that right, Harry?” Molly gave him a sympathetic look.

 

He worked well with Hermione and Luna; the three of them operated a Creature Rights charity out of Grimmauld Place. They were committed, amusing, dependable and efficient colleagues whose attitudes complimented each other – even though a few of the creatures Luna spent time trying to protect probably didn't exist. But they were both huge with child. Like his wife. And Fleur. He thought he'd spotted Hannah Abbot-Longbottom throwing up in Diagon Alley, so he suspected that Neville would be making an announcement tonight, too.

 

Harry wanted to drink beer with other people who could drink, talk Quidditch instead of changing units or nipple creams. He also wanted to see George. Just look at him. It had been weeks. Between them the three women closest to him had had one reasonable request after another which had resulted in secret last minute apologetic owls to Wheezes. He closed his eyes and leant back against the wall, waiting for his wife to shuffle her overloaded pelvis across the room to the fireplace. They were going to Floo to the Leaky, not that there was any definitive evidence linking Apparition and birth defects, but Ginny wasn't going to take the risk.

 

A loud group of their friends filled one corner of the pub. While he helped manoeuvre Ginny through the crowded room onto the table where most of the women sat, he scanned the room for his lover's shape. He found him standing at the bar with Lee and Charlie. They were laughing. Lee's hands formed shapes in the air as he told a story and the two red-heads shook with mirth. Sharp jealousy stabbed at Harry.

 

He backed away from his wife and colleagues as quickly as could without being too rude, collecting their requests for (soft) drinks and heading to the bar. By the time he got there, though, George and the others had moved over to the pool table to join Seamus. Harry added an extra beer to his order, thinking that he might be able to take it over to George, but it was noisy and hot and he was grumpy, so he ended up drinking it himself as he levitated the fruit juices across the room and shoved his way over to take Ron a pint and sit with him.

 

Ron tried to ask something practical about nursery equipment, but Harry stopped him.

 

“I've had it up to here with babies, mate. Sorry.”

 

Ron relaxed then and started talking about the Cannon's new Beater. It was safe ground. Harry handled his side of the conversation with little effort. It was like slipping on an old T-shirt for someone who's been in a suit all week. He had positioned himself with a good view of the games tables, lazily admiring the shapes George's body made as he stretched and bent over the table, or fidgetting with his cue as he waited for Charlie, Lee or Seamus to take their shots. People kept putting full pint mugs in front of Harry and he kept emptying them.

 

Neville had gossip about the school and Percy had hints of scandal at the Ministry. The first hour or two passed gently and warmly and Harry's tension drifted off. When the pool players came over to join everyone else, he started working on a plan to catch George's eye and sneak off to the loos together in a way that might not be noticed.

 

But once the whole group had assembled, there was a cough and Harry realised that the two champagne bottles which were floating through the pub were heading for them, and that Seamus wasn't sitting down. He was standing beside Dean and Dean was standing up, too. The two men exchanged a nervous glance, then Dean said loudly, “We've got an announcement.”

 

A hush fell gradually over their side of the room.

 

Dean chewed his lip, then added, “We're hoping you'll drink some champagne with us to celebrate that, um ...” he looked at Seamus.

 

“We're getting married,” the Irishman finished.

 

Harry's fogged brain tried to make sense of that, for some reason he was thinking of the Patil twins and a double ceremony, but it was Neville who asked, “Who to?”

 

“Each other,” Dean explained.

 

Silence stretched on. Harry looked at the, mostly guarded, faces of his friends. He tried to avoid George, but somehow his gaze ended up in that direction. George was looking back at him.

 

“Congratulations,” Audrey said eventually.

 

Once she'd said it, voices around the table began to repeat it. Some chimed in with other platitudes about being very happy together, or questions about dates and venues. Harry tried to will his throat to work, to force out some neutral phrase.

 

“I didn't know men could marry each other,” Luna said. Even she didn't ask how long they had been more than flatmates, why they'd never said anything before.

 

“Oh, yes,” Percy replied, “It's a little known statute but there is a clause in the Bonding Laws.” He started describing the complexities of the paperwork needed and the lengthy processes and rituals involved, offering Dean and Seamus any help they needed with completing it all.

 

“Oh, shut up, Percy!” George snapped. “You're not the only person who can fill in a form, you know. Stop being so boring!” He reached for a glass of champagne, though he was already slurring his words.

 

“Leave him alone!” Harry hadn't meant to be that loud. “Give Percy a break! He's being helpful.”

 

“Mind your own business, you don't know what he's like.” George replied.

 

The large group watched them warily.

 

“Yes I do! He's all right. But you won't leave him alone. All the time I've known you, you've been bullying him.”

 

“Leave it,” Percy whispered urgently.

 

But Harry didn't leave it. Dean and Seamus' announcement had made him feel agitated and he wanted to be angry, he particularly wanted to be angry with George. “You and Fred -” he started. He knew that would be enough.

 

“What?” George pushed through the crowd until he was standing over Harry. “What did you say about Fred?” He grabbed Harry's shirt and hauled him upright. “Nobody criticises Fred around me!”

 

By now their friends had become very vocal, particularly the women, shrill and panicky. Harry and George stared, flushed, into each other's faces.

 

“Just because he's dead -” Harry spat. He never got to finish his sentence, because the two of them were thrown backwards, away from each other, by a red flash from old Tom's wand.

 

“Take it outside, boys,” the landlord growled quietly.

 

George stood carefully, took another step back, brushed himself off and started to apologise to everyone, to promise Tom that they'd behave themselves, they didn't need to go outside. So Harry swung a punch at him.

 

He never made contact, Tom's wand moved too fast. His decades of experience with drunks sent them spinning through space and they landed hard between tall bins on the cold stone floor of the alleyway behind the pub.


	26. Black and Blue With a Rainbow Yawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR! GeW/HP, GiW/HP, RW/HG, GeW/AJ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**
> 
> **Warnings:** Drunkenness, sulkiness and vomit.

George's stomach lurched. A belly-full of beer and the unexpected flight through the air had made him feel very unwell. Added to that, he'd landed fast on hard stone and his thighs and buttocks were bruised.

“What's got into you?” he asked Harry furiously.

Harry didn't reply at first, so he turned to look at him. He was rocking backwards and forwards, curled into a ball with his head in his hands. George lurched to his feet and stumbled away from his lover.

“'M sorry ...” Harry mumbled. “Just wanted to touch you.”

George leaned behind one of the bins and threw up. Then he staggered to the wall across the alleyway. He was cross with Harry for getting them kicked out and for criticising Fred, but there was a deeper gnawing rage inside him, a desperate anger about everything. He tapped the bricks in sequence and they started to shift apart.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked in a surprised tone.

“Home,” George replied shortly, before stepping through.

Harry followed him.

“What are you doing?” George asked.

“Coming with you,” Harry said. Then, more quietly, his eyes big, he added, “Unless you don't want me.”

George sighed and rolled his eyes, exasperated with himself. “Godric help me, but don't I always want you?”

Harry smiled a kid's big grin which pulled George close to forgiving him for everything. He hopped through the wall, which closed behind them, and they walked off down Diagon Alley together.

“What if your wife comes looking for you?” George asked.

Harry's face screwed up in concentration. he stared at his wand, trying to summon enough sobriety for a _Patronus_. After a minute he managed it, saying with over-careful enunciation: “We're going round to George's to talk things through. I might be late back, you go home when you're ready.” He looked up for George's approval when he'd finished.

“Talk things through?” George asked. “That what we're calling it these days?” His voice was low and flirtatious, but there was a resigned aggravation in there, too. He headed off down the street, then, so he was facing away when he said, “Seamus and Dean's announcement seemed to go down well.”

Harry said nothing, just followed.

“Very easy really. Everyone reacted well.”

“To their faces,” Harry muttered. “We'll see what they say behind their backs later.” He took another few steps then added, “And neither of them is Harry Potter.”

“Too bloody right,” George chuckled. “'Cos if they were then the other one would be shagging you and I'd have to beat him up!”

Harry didn't laugh. “You know what I mean. They won't be on the front page of the Prophet tomorrow. They never saved the Wizarding World, so they don't have to live up to its expectations. If they do make the papers it'll be because – Shock! Horror! - 'Friends of The Chosen One are Secret Bum Bandits'. It'll only make the inside pages.”

“How long do you think they've been together then?” George pondered. “You shared a dorm with them. D'you reckon they were at it then?”

“No! We'd have noticed. Then again, nobody noticed we were.”

They had reached Wheezes. George unlocked the back door and they went in. As soon as the door closed, Harry grabbed George by the shoulders and pushed him against it. He pressed their bodies together and tried to force a kiss. George turned his head, though. “I'm pukey,” he said. “Anyway, we need to talk.”

Harry let go and George pushed past him to go up the stairs into the flat.

“I haven't seen you for weeks and you want to _talk_?” Harry complained.

“Exactly!” George responded. “I can't stand it being so part time.”

“Fine!” Harry whined. “I'll just move in here, then. You can explain to your sister why she's a single mother!”

“Are you coming up or what?” George asked from the top of the stairs.

Pouting, Harry followed him up. George was in the bathroom when he got into the flat, brushing his teeth. So, a snog wasn't completely out of the question, then? Harry was having trouble concentrating, but George looked frighteningly sober as he stood with his hand resting on the sink, watching Harry approach him in the mirror.

“What am I?” George asked.

“I love you,” Harry replied.

George wheeled round fast. “Then why isn't it me in that bloody cottage with you? Why aren't I signing your name at the bottom of my christmas cards?”

“Not again! You know why not!”

“We should have stood up, like they did, told everyone, years ago!”

“Well maybe we should!” Harry yelled back. “But it's too fucking late now, isn't it?”

“I'm sick and tired of my mother asking me why I don't find someone and settle down. I have bloody found someone --”

“You'd rather hear what she says after you run off with her precious only daughter's husband?”

“Sometimes I hate you,” George whispered. “Sometimes I just want to get on with my life.”

There was silence apart from their laboured breathing for a few moments.

Then Harry asked, “Do you want me to go away?” They stared at each other. Harry sighed and looked down to the floor. His voice cracked as he added, “I've been thinking about you all the time. I missed you so much.”

George's anger melted and his resolve broke. He crossed the tiled floor to take his lover in his arms. They folded into each other. George kissed the scruffy black hair on the top of Harry's head and he said, “I love you too.” 


	27. Touches and Tealeaves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**
> 
>  
> 
>  **Warnings:** Contains homophobia and description of a sexual act.

George crossed the tiled floor. Harry looked so lost and sad. He looked like a person with the greater part of him missing. And George knew, they both knew, that what was missing was George. He might resent the way Harry had treated him, he might be angry and frustrated by the way his life was as a result, he might be lonely every night and empty every morning, but as soon as he saw Harry's face fall, every time, he wanted to make him happy again.

 

He put his arms round the bowed shoulders and Harry relaxed onto him. George kissed the scruffy black hair on the top of Harry's head and he said, “I love you too.” Harry's hands ran over him, then, stroking all the spots where he liked to be stroked and it had been a long time. Harry put his mouth to George's neck and danced a complicated pattern of lips and teeth and tongue across it.

 

Before he surrendered completely, George said. “Maybe we should talk things through. That's what you told Ginny we were doing.”

 

“One more lie makes no difference,” Harry muttered against George's collarbone.

 

“It would be a good idea, though,” George protested weakly. “We never do. We argue but it's never resolved, we just have sex and let that make everything better.”

 

“It does make everything better, though.” Harry pulled George's head down to his own and kissed him, hard, driving all rationality away.

 

He dragged George through the flat by his belt buckle, their mouths on each other, their arms round each other, until they got to the bed. Harry pushed George down onto it, throwing himself on top. He undid George's trousers, pulling out his full cock and closing his mouth over it. George groaned and bucked up; Harry let him thrust into his mouth, relishing the familiar taste.

 

He moved his tongue from side to side and sucked, scrabbling at cloth to release George's balls into his palm where he cupped and rolled them, before he began to move his head up and down, accentuating the movement of George's thrusts.

 

George gritted his teeth and threw his head back in his usual silence, his whole consciousness distilled into his groin, centring round a swirling, electric heat at his core. His thumbs dug into the soft skin behind Harry's ears. He writhed without inhibition, too far gone to be considerate of the man he loved so much, the man he had submitted his life to. Then he came, exploding, shooting hard into Harry's mouth.

 

Stream after stream of hot saltiness burned into Harry's throat. He swallowed and swallowed, wanting to swallow all of George, to have him always inside him. As the thrashing of the body below him stilled, Harry jerked off his trousers, keeping his mouth on him. He rolled the cock on his tongue until George protested. Then he kissed tickles all over George's hips as he pulled down his own trousers.

 

George's hole was warm and relaxed as Harry's first finger entered. Harry watched it slide in and disappear. He _Accioed_ the lube and poured it over his hand. He looked up at George's face then, at the soft smile and unfocussed eyes. Harry realised that the little frown marks between George's eyes had smoothed out. He raised a languid hand and caressed Harry's taut upper arm.

 

Harry took that hand by the wrist and turned it, filling the palm with lube, then shuffled forwards until he could wrap it round his shaft.

 

“Oh, yes, fuck!” he exclaimed at the touch.

 

George closed his fingers together and moved them up and down a couple of times. It felt overpoweringly exquisite. Harry quickly worked two more fingers into George's cavity, then pulled his prick harshly out of his grip and straight into him. He pushed George's knees down to his chest and shoved right in, fast and hard. He closed his eyes and slammed down, soaking up the friction of muscle against his sensitive skin, rubbing in and out.

 

He was barely aware of the hands on his back, nor the tight breathing of his lover below him. He jerked furiously, letting the passion build until it had to spill. When he'd emptied himself he collapsed and lay sprawled over George's strong body. After a brief blackout, he began to inhale the smells. He didn't know what made them up, but he relished them, the smells that always came with their lovemaking. He licked at the sweat on George's freckled shoulder.

 

When he got back to his cottage about an hour later, the kitchen was full of Weasleys. They were sitting round the pine table, drinking tea. It looked as though the table had been enlarged. He didn't think they had that many chairs. When he opened the door, Ron started applauding. Hermione slapped at his hands.

 

“Feather weight champion of the world!” Ron called out.

 

Charlie guffawed.

 

“Did you sort things out then?” Ginny asked with concern.

 

“Yeah, of course. We were just pissed, erm, sorry, Molly, a bit drunk.”

 

“So, who won?” Charlie asked.

 

“We never hit each other,” Harry explained defensively. He had been expecting to sneak into a dark house. He wasn't ready for this. “I'm really knackered.”

 

Ron shook his head, “The boxing champ after the fight.”

 

“Stop it, Ron!” Hermione scolded.

 

Charlie and Ron exchanged a look.

 

“Have a cup of tea,” Hermione added, summoning a mug and the teapot.

 

“No, I'm going to bed.” This wasn't fair. These pregnant women spent all week being tired and then stayed up late when he wanted rid of them.

 

“You just got in!” Ginny complained.

 

Harry sat, reluctantly. He sat next to Percy, though, because he hadn't said anything yet and it seemed safer.

 

“Bit of a surprise announcement, tonight, wasn't it?” Percy asked, thinking he was being kind by changing the subject.

 

“I'd never have had those two down as ... you know ... that way inclined,” said Audrey. “They seem like such nice boys.”

 

“Ginny went out with Dean, didn't you?” Ron taunted. “It's enough to put anyone off women.”

 

“They seem to have just, sort of, drifted into it,” Hermione added, confused.

 

“Maybe they just didn't say anything but they were -” Charlie broke off and looked at his mother “- I mean they were close to each other, all along.”

 

Harry wanted to know what he would have said if Molly hadn't been there, how he would have phrased it. Clearly, he had just stopped himself from saying something obscene.

 

“I think it's such a shame that they're going to miss out on having a proper family,” Molly mused, staring into her teacup.

 

“Some of them do have children, actually,” Percy said, getting interested like this was zoology. “You know, through adoption.”

 

“Are they allowed to?” his mother asked.

 

“There were a lot of orphans after the war. I think policy changed then.”

 

Molly's face creased with concern. “I don't know how I feel about that,” she said.

 

“I'm sure Harry would rather have had a gay couple who cared for him properly than, well, what he did have.” Ginny looked over at him expectantly. Harry did not intend to get involved in this conversation, though.

 

Molly sighed. “Yes. And I'm sure they're no more likely than anyone else to interfere with the children. I mean, Dean and Seamus are perfectly respectable young men. I just worry.”

 

“Who's babysitting for you?” Harry asked Percy, hoping it would remind them to leave.

 

Percy grinned widely. “Audrey's parents have got the girls for the weekend.” He put an arm round his wife. “We'll be missing them like mad by this time tomorrow, but just at the moment it's rather liberating.”

 

“Oh yes, they're hard work, but they are worth it!” Molly beamed at most of her children. Then she turned to Charlie. “Really. It would be tragic for anyone to miss out on being a parent.”

 

“Would it really?” he asked drily.

 

His mother gave him a terrible, pitying look. “I do worry about you. And poor George of course.”

 

“There must be some people who wonder about you,” Ron said with a cheeky grin.

 

“What?” Charlie turned to stare at him.

 

Someone else might have been intimidated, but Ron kept going. “We keep hearing about all these women you're dating, but we never get to meet them. How are we to know these hot dates aren't big hairy men?”

 

“Say that again!” Charlie growled threateningly.

 

“We had no idea about Seamus and Dean, so we wouldn't know, would we?”

 

“You doubt I'm a real man?” Charlie asked. “You need me to ram my fist down your throat to prove it?”

 

Ron laughed, but Hermione told him to “Shut up, Ron. You're drunk.”

 

“Maybe I just don't fancy being pussy-whipped like you are!” Charlie called over.

 

Harry put his head in his hands. He didn't think he could take much more of this conversation.

 

“Harry does look knackered.” Ron observed. “Going at it with George must have tired him out.”


	28. Chamberpots and Coffee Beans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant including the epilogue.

“Look! Look! Daddy!” James' grubby, chubby face was beaming. “I'm a clever boy!”

Harry peered at the golden trickle in the bottom of the blue potty his son was holding up to show him. “That's very clever, James. Well done. Baby Albus,” he indicated the sleeping bundle on his shoulder, “thinks you're very clever too.”

Ginny tried to take the potty, but James held fast. A determined little spark of magic glittered for a moment at his tiny fist.

“Mummy has to put that in the loo, now.”

“No!” James yelled, his face going as red as his hair. “I want show Grandma clever boy!”

Ginny and Harry exchanged a glance.

“Not taking that through the Floo,” Harry muttered. “I'm already covered in posset.” Albus had been regurgitating white cheesey goo onto his shoulder since sunrise. Now the little darling was sleeping like a baby and Harry wanted to get back to bed, too. The last thing he wanted was a big Weasley Sunday.

“Try to be supportive!” Ginny growled.

“I am! I even threw in the bollocks about Al to make him feel positive towards -”

“Language!”

“Well, you can carry it!”

Ginny crouched down to their first-born and cooed, “I tell you what, darling. We'll take the potty with us and then you can do another wee wee for Grandma and Grandpa when we're there!”

“Fantastic!” Harry muttered. “Roast beef with a side order of piss.”

“What's piss?” James asked, clutching his little sample of it.

Before Ginny could say anything, Harry hurried out of the room with a “Just put this one down for a moment and get changed!”

He'd always wanted a family. It was the thing he'd never had. It had all looked warm and the busyness had seemed comforting from the outside. He hadn't anticipated how smelly and tiring it would all be. Of course it was worth it. The babies were utterly lovely - particularly when they were sleeping after a bath – but he wished he had the energy to enjoy it all. He wished he didn't keep getting things wrong.

He laid their youngest in the cradle in their bedroom. Albus Severus? What had they been thinking? He'd been traumatised by the birth and Ginny too exhausted to argue. Thank goodness he'd been prevented by Ron from hyphenating it into one name. Still, at least it wasn't Scorpius Hyperion. He'd seen the birth announcement for Malfoy's kid. Harry chuckled to himself as he got changed into some almost clean, but completely unpressed robes. At least his son wouldn't have the silliest name in the Year.

Molly and Arthur made family life look like a christmas card. They were all hugs and cooking smells and big, relaxed smiles. Harry wondered whether they had been as stressed as he was when Bill and Charlie were little, whether they really remembered it. They went on to have five more kids, though! What can it have been like when Ron and Ginny were the ages of James and Albus? Well, Harry couldn't cope with two, he certainly wasn't going to have any more.

Molly snatched Albus from Ginny's grip as soon as they arrived and woke the baby up. He screamed crossly. Being clasped into his grandmother's bosom only muffled the noise slightly.

“What have you got there?” someone asked excitedly.

“Is potty clever boy!” James announced.

There was a chorus of high-pitched, flapping cooing. Then Percy's Molly and Bill's Dominique swooped on James and hauled him about, playing with him like he was a dolly. He lapped up the attention, but after half an hour or so he would end up overwrought. Then they would get bored of him and he'd spend the rest of the day pathetically trailing after them with a faceful of snot and tears. If today followed the recent pattern, then they would give him sweeties to shut him up and he would end up being sick in the Floo home.

Harry wandered into the kitchen. He saw George sitting at the scrubbed table and began to smile, just as Molly senior started going on about “Such a lovely surprise!” George didn't smile back. He gave Harry a hard, deliberate look, then reached out an arm and pulled a familiar figure onto his lap. Harry froze for a moment.

“You know Angelina?” his mother-in-law asked.

Angelina giggled and said, “We played Quidditch together at school, didn't we Harry?”

Harry forced himself back to life. “Great to see you again, Angelina.” He walked forward into the kitchen, every cell in his body telling him to run away.

She was sitting on his lap. He had both arms round her. They were gazing into each other's faces. Her breasts wriggled against his chest. It was all wrong.

“We didn't even know George had a girlfriend,” Arthur said. Harry noticed him for the first time, seated opposite the happy couple. “Then he turned up this morning with Angelina, asking if she could come for Sunday dinner.”

“It's a bit of a madhouse, Angelina. You're very brave!” Ginny joked.

Harry said nothing. He couldn't. A hot rage seethed inside him. After what felt like a lifetime, George tipped her onto her feet, but only so that he could walk round with his arm round her waist and introduce her to everyone. They sat next to each other at dinner, heads close, sharing sophisticated jokes, while Harry held a mewling toddler on his lap and tried to coax gravy covered yorkshire pudding into his mouth by hand.

When George went up to the bathroom for a pee, Harry followed him, saying loudly (in case anyone wondered) “You sit on Daddy's chair for a minute while I go and wash my hands ... arms ... neck ...”

He waited outside the cosy little door. When George saw him, he was startled, but tried to push past him. Harry shoved him back into the bathroom and locked it behind him.

“Harry, what the fuck?”

Harry tried to kiss George, got his mouth close, but he was thrown against the basin. “What's going on?” he asked, bewildered.

“I got a girlfriend. Mum's delighted. Everyone is, except Charlie, he says I've landed him in the shit.”

“You could have told me.”

George stared into his face.

“Oh, right.” Harry huffed. “This revenge for Ginny, is it? For when I was at school?”

George shook his head. “It's not revenge. I decided it was time I settled down and she's asked me out a couple of times. Why not? She's a lovely girl.”

The anger inside Harry was rapidly cooling to icy fear. “But this doesn't affect us. Does it?” He asked quietly. “I mean Ginny never did, didn't stop us -”

George took a step closer. “The difference is, hero boy, that I do things properly. I'm not fucking about, trying to play happy families and keeping something going on the side. I've got a girlfriend. I'm going to be a good boyfriend. I'm not going to lie to her. Get it?”

Harry felt hollow. “I love you,” he whispered.

“You'll get over it,” George replied, marching out of the room and then down the stairs.

After dinner the kids went off to play junior gobstones and the adults had coffee.

Molly got flustered again and forgot how everyone took it.

“Black coffee, two sugars,” George reminded her. The he added, “I like my coffee how I like my woman: strong, sweet, hot, black and naked.”

Most of the people in the room either laughed or tutted. Angelina smirked. Harry just stared at his hands, trying to remember how to breath. The sugar bowl spontaneously shattered.


	29. The Blasted Heath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR! GeW/HP, GiW/HP, RW/HG, GeW/AJ.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been looking forward to writing this chapter since before I typed the first word of this story. I hope it doesn't disappoint.  
>  **Warnings:** Sleazy slash sexual situation. Het sex.  
>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.  
> **

The cottage was spotlessly clean when Harry got in from work. Ginny was having a Headfloo with her mother. The boys seemed to be in bed. It was all rather suspicious. He felt very tired. Luna had decided to stay at home with the twins and they had never managed to replace her. More than that, he had been without George for nearly a year and he missed him.

That was an understatement. It was the smallest scrap of a fraction of how he felt. He was pining like an old dog dumped on a motorway. He was hollow, prone to long, maudlin drinking sessions on his own. He hadn't expected it to feel this bad; he hadn't expected to ever be without George.

At first he blamed Angelina. He told himself that she'd seduced George, tried to hate her. It was clear that George was in control of their relationship, though. So he tried to hate George. All he had to do was smile, though, and that wasn't possible. Harry blamed him for a while, though. He replayed their last private conversation, in the bathroom at the Burrow, flagellating himself with George's cruelty.

He always knew, though, deep down, whose fault it really was. After a couple of months he had to admit it to himself. It was Harry's fault. He had made every wrong decision that he could have made. He had been so desperate to have the wider Wizarding world's love, that he had lost the love he really needed. Harry had treated George like a dirty secret. He had cheated on him with his own sister. He'd broken his promise to be with George properly when the war ended.

He wanted a Timeturner; he wanted a new life where he did things differently. Harry had been brave enough against those who hated him, it was when it came to upsetting those who loved and admired him that he was a coward. He should have prioritised George's love.

Ginny finished the call quickly and bounced over. She was excited about something. She tried to hug him, but, as usual, he shifted away from her.

“Look, I know you hate dinner parties --” she started.

So that's what this was all about. She was trying to get him to agree to have people over. She'd already dealt with his usual objection that the house was too messy so she must be serious. It was bad enough that they had to go out and socialise a couple of times a week, mostly at functions in uncomfortable clothes, where Harry had to smile and shake hands and accept the grateful thanks of wizards and witches that he didn't know. Ginny revelled in it all.

She would say, “Well, what's the point on being married to the Great Harry Potter, if I can't show him off?”

“Not here, Ginny,” he said. “I need to have some peace somewhere.”

“Much good it does you!” she snapped. “Come on! A nice evening might actually cheer you up.”

He didn't answer, he wandered into the kitchen instead. The surfaces sparkled but they were empty. He was sure he could smell food. She didn't always cook for him, but she did when she wanted something. He was hungry.

“It's in the dining room. We hardly ever use that room, and it's so lovely.”

“Go on then, who do you want to invite?”

She smiled. “Angelina and George!”

No way!

“Oh come on, it'll be nice.”

Harry had a picture of it, the four of them sat round that ridiculously huge polished mahogany table, an evening spent witnessing the little touches and glances they gave each other. Even as a mental image it seared into him.

“They've got news and I want to talk to her. Please Harry!”

Harry walked towards the dining room. It smelled like duck. Midweek roast duck? Ridiculous! He hoped she hadn't set the table up with candles and silverware.

“Don't you even want to know what their news is?”

Not unless they'd split up, which they clearly hadn't. There were huge rose heads in the middle of the table. Had she got that from Witch Weekly? Or from one of the stupid wives of important wizards that she had those endless lunches with? There was some sort of glittery crap floating around the room. Two places set, close together at one end of the table.

“She's pregnant!”

He wasn't hungry any more.

“It's so exciting!”

That was the proof then. He had to face it. She had wrapped her long, black legs round his waist, where Harry's legs should have been. She had made that flush darken his skin, had heard him make that little hiccupping sound before he came inside her.

“So they'll have to get married now.”

He couldn't kid himself that it was all a big act. The way he stroked the back of her hand in public would be the way he stroked her breasts in private. Harry closed his eyes.

“I wonder if James and Albus could be pageboys?”

George was tied to Angelina now, the way that Harry was tied to Ginny, through the complication of loving a child.

“I want to talk maternity wear and nursery designers with her. Oh, please, Harry! Let's invite them round!”

“I'm going out.” He Apparated away.

He knew where he was going, he'd been thinking about it for weeks. At first he'd thought of going to one of George's clubs. At least he could scratch at the sexual part of his frustration there. He could hold the solid weight of another man's cock. But every morning as he dressed, he had appraised himself in the wardrobe mirror. He wouldn't have known how to dress. George had always been the one with the flash clothes. Harry wouldn't have known how to start making himself look attractive.

He saw his white, hairy belly and it looked enormous and soft to him. His face was lining. There were white hairs sprouting among the black ones on his head. Not just on his head.

The clubs would be loud and full of young people: young, attractive, underdressed, intimidatingly appealing young men. None of them would even see him. He'd given up on the club idea. Then a scandal had broken in all the Muggle papers – a member of Parliament had been caught with a young man on a common somewhere. The reporters had described the place as being full of men in bushes and behind trees “performing sex acts” on each other.

Harry had researched. He had found out that most of the cities and some towns had an area like this, a stretch of open park where dogs were walked and footballs kicked during the day.

He had chosen one which was far from home. There was no moon tonight. The trees and shrubs and bushes were just an inky blank stage flat. He walked the path. There were noises: twigs breaking, snuffles. He caught some movement from the edge of his eyes. Then he stepped off the path and his shoes sunk into the soft grass. There was some rubbish just ahead and when he reached it, stepped over it, he saw it was a silvery square of condom wrapper.

He could remember showering condoms onto George's bed, his own stupid righteousness. It had been an excuse, that was all, he'd used it as an excuse to escape the moment when he admitted to the world what he was and who he loved.

A section of the shadows broke away and took the shape of a man who stood silently and stared at Harry. He was tall, bald, a little older than Harry. He looked a lot stronger than him though. He jerked his head in a solemn invitation.

He wasn't George; there was no point.

Harry backed off a couple of steps. Then he turned and ran across the park. He ran downhill, away from the cover and shadows. He ran past the boating lake. The children's play area was to his left. He thought of his sons. He thought of George waiting for him, all dressed up, all those years ago. He ran out of the gates and into a street, behind a house and Apparated home.

He arrived in the dining room, where Ginny sat picking morosely at her plate of elegantly piled food, surrounded by her drooping decorative touches. He held onto his head and trembled for a few seconds.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You went to all this trouble.”

She was watching him warily, but she just shrugged. “You never appreciate anything. I don't know why I bother.”

Harry could feel a hot tear starting to well. He wasn't having that. He marched over to his wife and grabbed her, pulling her to her feet and into his arms. He started pulling up her skirt.

“God! Harry!” she exclaimed. “It's been years, I mean, I thought you'd lost interest after Albus was born, you --”

He kissed her just to stop her from talking. He shoved her back onto the ornate table and unzipped his trousers. That night Lily was conceived.

Afterwards Harry felt no satisfaction and he didn't bother again.


	30. A Boy Who Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just look at that! We've made it to 30 chapters. Thanks to all of you for coming along for the ride. To celebrate, we will have some hot man-loving in the next chapter!  
>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.  
>  **Warnings:**** Non explicit references to yicky medical things.

Hospitals all have a smell to them. It's mixed disinfectant and drugs and piss and despair and it gets into your clothes and hair and travels out into the fresh air with you when you leave. Strangely, St Mungo's disinfected in a very different way to the Muggle hospitals, and used potions and charms instead of drugs, but it still had the same depressing smell. It reminded Harry of visiting Vernon last year, to hear the heart monitor beep and watch the man who had once terrified him lying still and dribbling.

This was hardly a happier occasion as far as Harry was concerned, except that now he had to hide his pain. They were nearly at the ward when they met Hermione, Ron and their Rose coming the other way. Ron had the toddler on his shoulders and a soppy expression on his face.

“How is she?” Ginny asked Hermione.

Hermione nodded. “Pretty cheerful. Considering.”

Harry had managed to avoid the precise details of the birth, but the women in the family had done a lot of huddling and teeth-sucking.

“And how are you?”

Ginny rubbed at her swollen belly and shrugged as an answer. “What's the baby like?” she asked instead.

It was Ron who replied, with big, moist eyes: “He's lovely. He's got little fingernails and everything. He has that smell, that lovely new baby smell. Like butter.”

Ginny made a soft whimpering noise; Hermione rolled her eyes. Harry's gut froze.

“Oh, go on, 'Mione. Let's have another one!” Ron whined.

“We'll see,” she said flatly. “He looks like her.”

“And they've called him Fred?” Ginny asked.

Hermione nodded and the adults shared a solemn moment. It didn't last long. Albus, perched on Harry's hip, grabbed at the blue shiny balloons in his mother's hand and caught her hair instead. James laughed at his mother's squawking, which lead Rose to try the same on her Dad. James had been entrusted with carrying the bunch of flowers, which he was swinging around, and Ginny decided they had better get them to Angelina as soon as possible.

Harry's chest contracted as he saw the door to the ward. He swallowed and reminded himself that this should be easy. He could just slip into his public personality, the one he used for awards ceremonies and meetings at the Ministry. He would smile, shake George's hand and then coo at the baby. Easy.

He walked into the room and he saw George. His heart rose and then froze. It always did that. George stood by the curtained bed in which Angelina presided. He looked over their little tableau of mother-and-child. Harry remembered George's gruff response to his own babies. He didn't know how to move his feet forwards, into this ultimate illustration of his heart break.

The boys pelted forward and climbed onto the bed, Ginny following in a panic, trying to keep them off Angelina's new scars and the precious person in her arms. Angelina just laughed. Harry watched George and realised that his smile was fixed, his eyes glazed; he wasn't as happy as he should have been and Harry was very, very glad. It warmed him enough to get his legs to propel him to the bed.

“Oh, hasn't he got a lot of hair?” Ginny said.

Harry looked into the blanket, at the wizened, dark-skinned, hairy thing in there. He'd always thought they looked a bit like rodents to begin with, though he was fond of his own boys now. The thing opened its eyes which set the women off cooing and prompted Albus to try to poke at it. George reacted less than Harry did.

“Who wants a cup of tea?” Harry asked on impulse. “We can get some decent stuff from the canteen.”

“You couldn't get me a beer?” Angelina asked. “I haven't had one in nine months!”

“I'll have beer, too,” James said with a cheeky grin.

“You'll have pumpkin juice,” his father corrected him. “But I'll see if they've got any cake.”

“Cheesecake!” Angelina ordered. “I've got such a thing for cheesecake just now.”

“Ok. George, can you give me a hand carrying everything?”

George reacted for the first time, gazing at Harry gratefully and nodding. They walked the hospital corridors in silence to start with, staring ahead. Then George filled the silence in a dull, slow monotone.

“It was awful,” he said. “I didn't think it would be that bad. There was blood and she was screaming so much. I had to hold her hand and tell her everything was going to be all right. I couldn't see how it could be, though. I don't know how you did it a second time. Dad was with Mum every time. I've got such respect for him now. I didn't understand. It was like battlefield.”

“But it was all right.”

“It was all right. They are both alive and there's nothing wrong with him. He's just completely helpless. He relies on her totally and they both rely on me. I have to be strong for them. I have to hold their hands and tell them everything's going to be all right. Then I have to make sure that it is. I don't know if I'm strong enough.”

“Of course you are.”

“But who do I rely on? Who'll support me so I can support them?”

“You support each other.”

“But I ...” George looked intensely at Harry. He opened his mouth, but then noticed where they were and closed it again.

They had reached the canteen. Harry told the witch behind the counter what they wanted and loaded it onto the tray. George just watched him. Harry levitated the tray in front of them and they headed back upstairs. When they were alone again, George said, “I can't do it. I'm not strong enough.”

“Of course you can,” Harry replied. He was trying to say the right things, but a fluttering hope had started to unfurl its wings in his chest.

“It would be easier if I loved her,” George said.

Harry looked right into the face he loved for the first time in a long time; George looked right back.

“I need you,” George admitted. “I've missed you. You give me all the strength I have. Can you forgive me?”

The tray wobbled as Harry's magic surged. He sent it on ahead of them. His blood was pounding loud through his body.

“I don't deserve a second chance,” he whispered. “Am I getting one?”

“I've made such a stupid mistake.” George's voice choked. “Now I can't undo it.”

“Ginny was a mistake. I shouldn't have married her. I'm so sorry.”

“But it's too late. They need us now. We've fucked up. We can't undo it.”

Harry took hold of George's wrist and dragged him up a few steps, along a corridor and into the Gent's. They fell into a stall and Harry pushed George against the door.

“They need us, but we need each other. We can have that.” Harry gripped George's upper arms. Their faces were close together, panting breath into each other's faces.

“We'll make each other strong enough to look after them all.” George's eyes shone with hope. “We won't get caught,” he added.

“We never get caught,” Harry agreed, before George leaned forward and laid his lips on Harry's.


	31. In the Second Floor Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.  
>  **Warnings:**** Slashy, smutty explicit man-sex!

“We'll make each other strong enough to look after them all.” George's eyes shone with hope. “We won't get caught,” he added.

“We never get caught,” Harry agreed, before George leaned forward and laid his lips on Harry's.

The kiss was hard, full of teeth and quick movements. In a blind haze of lust, George realised that his tongue was inside Harry's mouth. It was thrusting and exploring. And Harry's tongue was doing the same. Their hands were pulling and gripping everywhere. Their breath was short, loud, wet.

Harry pushed forward as far as he could go, every inch of both of their bodies seemed to be in contact. George's back pressed into the door of the toilet cubicle. Their wives and children were just a few floors above them. Angelina was recovering from a terrible birth; Ginny was aching with the end-weeks of pregnancy. Those people were not real, though, not fully and properly whole and alive, not like the two of them.

“I don't like staying away from you,” Harry growled. “It hurts. It's cold.” He knew he'd said that before.

“I missed you like shit, like it hurt. It did hurt,” George replied, before covering his own mouth with the warm, salty flesh of his lover's neck. He took hold of Harry's hand, his fingertips tingling at the warmth between his fingers. He scratched his nails over the back of it, over the old scars of letter shapes.

The special sensation of George's touch spread over Harry's body. Harry's chest contracted. As their fingers scrabbled at each other's sides, George thought 'I just want this to be always, every night and all the daylight minutes, too, we should always be like this'.

Their groins rutted against each other, friction building between their hard, hot, needy cocks. Their bodies found different ways to fit – old remembered ways. Harry tipped his head back to see George's face. He ran a finger across one ginger eyebrow, down a freckled cheekbone, dipped into the soft hollow of a cheek, then, feeling like he had come home at last, he touched George's lower lip. George's nerve-endings reacted with such voltage that he nearly pulled away. His heart sped up. His brain closed down. His vision narrowed to those two green eyes.

He wanted to touch every place on Harry's body. He had missed them all, itemised them all as he lay awake through the night in his mistake of a marriage bed, his expanding wife snoring beside him. He could feel his buttocks bruising as they were shoved repeatedly against the hard door by Harry's thrusting pelvis. He pulled up Harry's robes and shoved his hand down into his pants, his fingers scrabbling, uncoordinated against their other movements, slipping on pre-come, taking hold of the hard, burning flesh of Harry's cock: the cock which belonged to George, which was back in the folds of his palm where it properly lived.

Harry's forehead lined round his scar, he bit at his lower lip and the flush on his skin deepened. He kissed the skin just below where George's ear should have been. The only thing he could feel was the movement of George's hand. George groaned. The world disappeared. There was no past or future, no objects or people beyond this public lavatory stall, no time, no light, no magic, no families. Harry fired hot, wet come over them both.

He sank instantly to the floor, tearing at George's clothing as he went, muttering, “Love you so much, want you so much.” Then he slid George's musky, metallic-tasting prick between his lips, all the way in, no teasing. It felt like his mouth had always been full of this, like the rest of his life was a dream that came in the dozes between their lovemaking.

Harry sucked hard. He stroked with his hand. He licked his tongue up and down inside his mouth, against the throbbing flesh. George said nothing. His throat had closed over. Every part of him was too sensitive to everything. He could only sigh and moan lightly. Language was impossible. His fingers ran their way through the messy black hair bobbing at his waist. If it was a little thinner now than it had once been, if some of the hairs were now white, he didn't notice.

George felt the tension of his passion tensing like a fist and then he hiccupped and it was released, each spray causing Harry's throat to constrict round him as he swallowed. When Harry finally let him slip out of his mouth, his knees gave way. They sat on the floor beside each other and George wrapped his arms round his lover, holding tight and sobbing, because letting go of Harry would feel like being skinned.

Harry licked at George's tears, then planted healing butterfly kisses all over his face.

“Kiss it all better,” he said.


	32. Telling Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what happened last month. There seemed to be an awful lot of shopping, posting, baking, more shopping, having visitors, going out, more baking, more shopping, travelling, cooking, eating, wrapping things in paper and unwrapping other things. I seem to remember something similar happening at about the same time last year ...  
> Anyway, as a result, I've not written this as often as I would have liked. Now the kids are back at school and I have to catch up on everything (this fic first) and I've managed to get full of snot. (TMI? Sorry). I'm all sneezy and dopey and sleepy and lots of other Disney Dwarves, which is having a detrimental effect on my abilities to think, form sentences, type and spell. So I am sorry about the low quality of this offering for which you have already waited too long.

Lee's dreadlocks were thinner, a twined mixture of black and silver now, the exposed scalp between them was wider. He still caught the interest of most of the women and girls in Wheezes, though. It was to his credit that he still had the 'locks, that he'd stayed true to who he was. Or was it? Was that just a sign of his refusal to grow up? Should he have chopped them off and put a suit on and got a proper job? Surely being a DJ was a young man's game, certainly partying and one-night-stands were.

He helped to dress the shop. When he loitered about near the windows it always increased the number of female customers. George was busy, but never too busy for his best mate.

“When you closing up tonight?”

“Half five. The usual time.”

“I'll hang around until then, we'll go for a drink, yeah?”

George's movements slowed as his brain raced. That wasn't going to work, was it? But Lee might make a useful excuse.

“I'll have to square it with the ball-and-chain,” George began. “I tell you what --” but he had to break off in order to serve a harassed Mum looking for twelve identical Burping Blowhorns for partybags. He managed to remind her of how noisy that would get at the end of the party and talked her into the slightly more expensive Colour-changing Cobras instead. “And you'll want Chameleon Cocoa Candy for each of the little darlings as well,” he added, “to send them home with faces the same colour as their Cobras. Wears off in half an hour, but everyone knows they've been to a party.” He pointed her in the direction of the sweetie stand.

He turned to Lee, but found he was already swapping 'phone numbers with a tall, tattooed redhead who hadn't been there a couple of minutes earlier.

When Lee called after her, “I'll be in touch Tania, happy shopping!” George made his way back towards him to finish the conversation. He had the timing all worked out now.

“About that drink.”

“You leave Angelina to me,” Lee said, as George had hoped he would. “I'll persuade her to let you off the leash for the night.”

“Tell you what, I'll need an hour or so to tidy up here and count up all my lovely money.”

“We should all have such terrible chores!”

“Why don't you Apparate round to ours and work your golden tongue on my Missus --”

“You don't really mean that how it sounds!”

“It would save me a job later! No, you talk her round while I get this place sorted, then I'll meet you at the Leaky at about half six.” He knew full well it would be closer to seven by the time Harry left. He also knew that it only took twenty minutes with a steady wand and a Calcu-quill to get the store ready for the next day. Angelina didn't know that, though. He'd just have to come in twenty minutes early in the morning. With a hangover. It would be OK. It was worth it.

Lee left with the last customer (“There's no such thing as too many Pygmy Puffs, madam ...”) and George turned the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed'. Meanwhile, at the back door, Harry was letting himself in. Three times a week for two years this had been their routine. They never got caught out.

Angelina kept telling George that they should sell that flat above the shop. “I need it for storage,” he insisted. “And anyway,” he let his eyes unfocus a little, “that's where Fred and I were ...” he trailed off, she didn't push it. The truth was that however much money they could have got for that space it wouldn't have been enough to make up for the convenience of having a shagging pad above work. She hadn't been up there in years, didn't even know that there was still a bed there.

When George got up the stairs, Harry was already sitting on that bed, shoes and shirt thrown to the floor. George's jacket joined them. Harry lay back, spreading his legs invitingly and, with a grin, George got between them.

“I've been thinking about you all day,” Harry grumbled. “I had to wank off in the loo at lunchtime.”

George nuzzled his face into the cloth at his crotch, pushing his nose against the half hard flesh. “I haven't given you a moment's thought since you left on Tuesday,” he hummed against the front of Harry's pants.

“Bastard!”

George eased down the zipper. “And I'm a liar. Been looking forward to this all day.” He took hold of Harry's hot cock. “Spent all day with those toys, wanting to play with this instead.” He tightened his grip and tugged upwards.

Harry groaned. “Shift up here,” he said. “Suck me while I suck you.”

“That's a plan.”

The rest of their clothes were shed swiftly and they lay side by side, heads to groins, licking skin, squeezing each other's coarse-haired balls, breathing in the scent they knew so well. Harry kissed his way up George's shaft then filled his mouth with him; George followed his pattern. Soon both of their heads were bobbing, cheeks hollowing, tongues performing dancing patterns on the flesh which filled them.

Backs arching, they climaxed together, in unison, pulling off and yelling, letting the come spray over their cheeks.

“Just to warn you,” George said, as he hurriedly dressed again, “Ang wants another baby. We're trying for one. Sorry.”

It stung like a sudden knife in the gut. Harry's head filled with unwanted images of frantic fishy-smelling couplings. It was better to be warned, to be able to prepare himself, though. This was more consideration than he'd ever shown George when he'd been impregnating Ginny; he was reminded of how thoughtlessly cruel he had been then. He sniffed and nodded. Then he went home to listen to James reading and George went to the pub with Lee.


	33. The Hogwarts Express

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

“Are you all right?”

No reply, just a light sniffle.

“You're not all right. What is it?”

Harry twisted round in the bed in the dark and reached out a hand. “What is it?” he asked again, patting Ginny on the shoulder.

She pushed him off, snapping, “What do you think it is?”

“Are you crying?”

“Not really.” Then she sobbed.

Harry grabbed her and turned her round, wrapped his arms around her and hugged, letting her weep onto his shoulder. “It's ok,” he murmured. “It's all going to be fine.”

“It's not!” was the muffled reply.

“He'll be absolutely fine. In fact, I think he's going to love it. I'll bet he does. He's looking forward to it.”

“He's terrified.”

“Of course he'll be a bit nervous. He's never spent that long away from home before and he doesn't know what it's going to be like. But we do. It can't have changed all that much since we were there and we coped, didn't we?”

She pulled back and faced him. He was glad that he couldn't see much in the near-dark, because what he could see were puffy, wet, red cheeks and it was not attractive.

“Harry!” She grunted. “In my first year at Hogwarts I nearly died! Remember?” She buried her head back against his chest. “Thank Merlin you were there to rescue me!”

“Hate to be pedantic, Gin, but if I hadn't been there then you wouldn't have been in danger in the first place. It was a plot to destroy The Boy Who Lived. Remember?” He stroked her hair. It was actually quite nice at night time, when she'd washed all the styling product out of it. He continued softly. “James' schooldays won't be like ours. They'll be safe. No dark evil wizard, these days, trying to come back to life and take over the world. And no frankly pathetic young nemesis as the target of his wrath. So, our baby isn't going to be caught in the cross-fire the way you were.”

“I know.” She sniffed. “I do know that.”

“That's not really the problem, is it?”

“No,” she admitted. Then with a wail of grief she added, “I'm going to miss him so much! He's too young to go away from home.” Then quietly, as her distress subsided, she said, “I'm too young to be the mother of someone who's away at school.”

Harry ignored that last part, instead saying soothingly, “He's ready. He needs his next challenge. He might not be quite old enough when we put him on that train tomorrow, but he will be by the time he gets off it again at Christmas.”

“I don't want him to grow up.”

“The place is swarming with his cousins. You remember how Molly and Dominique used to make a doll of him when he was a toddler?”

Ginny sniffed and looked up, smiling. “He was a little terror!”

“I'm sure they'll look after him just as well now as they did then. Better, probably, now that he's grown out of sticking lollipops in their bunches.”

“And he knows Katie's son. He'll be starting at the same time. I do hope they get sorted into the same House!”

“Even if they don't, he'll make friends. He always does.”

“Yes. Everybody likes James.”

“Of course they do.” He held her tight and listened to her breathing. They both drifted back to sleep.

The next morning her eyes were red but she put a brave face on things. They loaded the trunk into the car, and James sat in the front seat next to Harry, stroking his new toad. He was a bit quieter than usual.

“You'll be fine,” Harry said, reassuringly.

“I know I will,” was the cheeky reply.

“Do you really have to go to work afterwards?” Ginny whined from the back seat, where she was sitting in between Albus and Lily.

“I'm afraid so.”

Ginny muttered something about a 'bloody slave driver'. Ginny and Hermione weren't speaking any more. Ginny had wanted Hermione to give up work as she had done when she had babies. She wanted her friend to join her at her long lunches with other notable wives. She read Hermione's choice to go back to work as a criticism. They had had several arguments in which Ginny had questioned Hermione's maternal instinct, and Hermione had fired back that Ginny was leaving Molly to bring up her children while she dolled herself up and did interviews.

Hermione also berated her for “dragging Harry” to all the social functions which he hated and Ginny thrived on, and eventually accused her of “only being in love with Harry's name.” Ginny countered with concerns about Ron's happiness, claiming that as his sister she could see that Hermione wasn't nurturing him enough. Once she accused Hermione of settling for “poor Ron” because she couldn't “get my Harry”.

The fight which finished everything, though, had come when Ginny had accused Hermione of keeping Harry too late at work, and Hermione had responded that Ginny expected him to come home early too often. What they were arguing over, though they didn't know it, was the hours Harry spent with George.

George had been in the audience for that one. While Harry felt sick with guilt over it, George had found it funny.

“It's you they're fighting over, you know,” he'd said afterwards. “They both want to control you.” He'd grinned again. “They don't know that really you belong to me!”

Harry still felt a bit bad, but he had to agree that the situation was convenient. Ginny thought he was going to spend the afternoon at work, but Hermione thought he was taking the whole day off.

Ginny managed to hold herself together, with much deep breathing, until the train puffed out of sight and they couldn't keep waving any more. By then, though, little Lily had caught her mood and was sobbing in her father's arms. He did what was needed: reassuring them both and wiping their tears, making sure Albus didn't get ignored in all the fuss. Harry concentrated on his wife and children for the whole morning. He kept his own feelings in check. He bought them all chocolate and made Albus feel important by asking him to look after the women for him while he was at work.

He drove them all home and they were dry-faced and singing by the time he got them back to the front door of the cottage. He settled them back in with a big smile and waved a cheery farewell before he Apparated.

He was strong and supportive right up until the moment the back door of Wheezes shut behind him and George asked how it had gone. Then he fell into his lover's arms and he cried his eyes out. George gently took him upstairs and silently held him, because he was the only one who knew how much Harry had been dreading this moment. He'd only told George how unready he felt to lose his son, how much he was going to miss reading with him every night, taking him to watch the Cannons every Saturday, bantering over breakfast.

George kissed Harry's tears away. This was the pact they'd made all those years ago in the toilet at the hospital: _“They need us, but we need each other. We can have that. We'll make each other strong enough to look after them all.”_


	34. Gifts and Gatherings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas at The Burrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 40,000 words so far. It would have been nice if I'd posted this a couple of months ago. Unfortunately RL Christmas kept me too busy to write myself up to fic Christmas. Happy Christmas everybody anyway – it's either belated or very, very early. **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**  
>  Warnings: Teenagers. (Well they 'scare the living shit out' of MCR, so they must be worth warning for.)  
> 

_25th December, 2017_

__For the first time in many years, Harry woke before his children on Christmas morning. He lay in bed and silently mourned over-excited dawn laughter. Half an hour later, he heard movement from Lily's room; she stayed in there, though, enjoying the contents of her stocking on her own.

Harry padded down to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. He slipped open the door to the sitting room. For years that had been warded on Christmas Eve to foil impatient raids. They had all grown out of that now, though.

There were a few little gifts in colourful paper under the tree. There weren't many surprises though. A long, thin box was labelled _Lily_ : she'd asked for the latest Firebolt. The six-foot tall shape, like a semi-circle on its side was for Albus. He wanted a harp and it couldn't be anything other than a harp. It even made a sound when anyone walked past it. James' squishy parcel would be less easy to guess, except that he'd been talking about nothing but Dragon Keeping and the protective gear needed for it for most of the year.

Well, he'd be happy anyway. He might even get out of bed before midday for the first time since term ended. Charlie had guaranteed that he'd be at The Burrow for lunch and Charlie was the only person over sixteen that James ever had a conversation with these days.

In the end, Ginny had to send Lily up to wake James at eleven so that they could open the family gifts before they Flooed to her parents' house.

“He says we should just get on with it.” Lily reported.

“We can't do that!” Harry whined.

“What did he think of his stocking?” Ginny enquired.

“He was fast asleep, Mum. He says he'll do it all later.”

James made it downstairs, crumpled and bleary still, just as they were leaving. Ginny was fussing about his having missed breakfast, but Harry was close to tears with missing the little boy he'd once been so close to. Ginny filled everyone's arms up with the gifts they were going to hand round the rest of the family. She could have just shrunk them, but always liked to “make a good show” as they arrived.

The only Christmases from his childhood which Harry remembered with any fondness, had been spent among Weasleys. A couple had been at school, and one at Grimmauld Place, but most of them had been here, at The Burrow. It still smelled the same. Molly's warm hugs, her insistence that they all eat her mince pies and the voice of Celestina Warbeck trilling from the kitchen, lifted Harry's mood; he could pretend that all was well.

They even had a toddler to play with. Bill and Fleur's little afterthought, Louis, was passed around all the adults who were nostalgic for the early years of their own little ones. He needed constant attention; it was nice to be needed.

James slunk off to find Charlie, Lily hid herself away with Ron and Hermione's Rose somewhere to whisper, and Albus, Hugo and Lucy took over the sitting room with something loud and Muggle from Hermione's parents. It was something like Dudley's Playstation games, but Harry couldn't be bothered to learn any more about it than that. The kids wouldn't have explained it to him even if he had asked.

Harry was tickling Louis when the Floo whooshed in the next room and Freddie's voice demanded, “Where's Hugo's Guitar Hero?” Percy was approaching with candy canes and Harry gladly let Louis totter off to him. Though his heart was beating a tattoo, he was well practised at hiding it. He casually stood up and strolled through the door in time to see George emerge.

They exchanged the quickest of glances. George had Roxy in his arms, though she was surely big enough to Floo on her own now. Harry quickly realised that she was there as a shield, because Angelina was furious.

“Look, it's all ready. I just have to go and pick them up,” George said casually.

“It's not like you had to go shopping. It'll all be shit from your place as usual!” his wife hissed.

“It's a busy time of year! Look, I'm sorry I forgot.”

“You'll have to wrap them as well, you know!”

“I'm not an idiot, Ang. It's all under control.” George grimaced apologetically at his mother. “I forgot the presents,” he said. “It's fine, though, I'll just pop back to the shop and pick them up. We've got about an hour before we eat, yeah?”

Molly tutted mildly, but she was more concerned with admiring Roxy's new singing mittens and telling her how much she'd grown, to pay much attention to George's shortcomings.

“You're going to be able to carry them all?” Angelina checked.

“You go and have a sit down and a sherry, darling. Don't worry about a thing. Erm ... Harry!” as though he'd only just noticed him, “You'll give me hand getting it all Flooed back here, won't you?”

Harry sighed, feigning reluctance. “I hate shopping!”

“Go on.”

“Fair enough.” He slouched towards the fireplace, wanting to dance there, keeping his face straight.

As he emerged in the shop, he was faced with a neat pile of perfectly gift-wrapped boxes. All ready to go. He turned to catch George as he fell onto the hearth behind him, pulling him into a tight embrace. They kissed hungrily, then Harry said, “Clever boy.”

“My wife has no faith in me,” George muttered against Harry's neck. “She thinks I'll be going round the shelves now and trying to remember the names of all of my family.”

“But instead you're all prepared. How much time do you reckon that buys us?” Harry eased his fingers under the waistband of his lover's jeans.

“Long enough for you to give me my real present,” George replied.


	35. God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.  
> **  
>  Warnings: Mansexing. Oral.

_25th December, 2017_

Harry ran his tongue across the stubble under George's jaw. He made a happy little groaning sound, then sucked on the soft, freckled, slackening skin of his neck. George was edging them backward and down. They lay down between two display cabinets. Harry pecked little kisses around the blackened skin where George had lost his ear.

“Still numb,” George mumbled. He was pushing his hands through Harry's unruly, slightly thinning, black hair.

“But it's you. Uniquely you.”

George chuckled. The phrase so closely mirrored what he'd just been thinking about Harry's hair. “Why don't you put that mouth where I can feel it?”

Harry pushed up on his arms and looked down on George. For the first time, he noticed that his eyes were bloodshot, and they had dark hollows under them.

“Tired?” he asked.

“Completely done in,” George admitted. “Busy time of year.”

Harry pushed up George's robes. “You'd be complaining if it wasn't. It's good business.”

George lifted his hips to help get his underwear off. “Could do with extra staff, really. But Ang reckons we should offer the flat as part of the package. Have a manager, maybe, living on site.”

“Right.” Harry kept his eyes on George's cock.

He couldn't meet George's eyes when he was feeling guilty. George kept the flat unoccupied for him, for them. And where else would they meet? It was a fantastic cock, though, well worth looking at, twitching awake in its nest of red curls. Harry lowered his mouth to it and licked along it, feeling the hardening as he did so.

“You just lie back,” he murmured, his lips against the sensitive flesh so that he sent vibrations through it. “I'll make it all better.” He removed his glasses and put them carefully on the shelf beside them.

He sucked on the smooth head, tracing swirly patterns over it with his tongue, as he took hold of it with one hand and slid the other over George's balls. George was breathing heavily somewhere above him, and his own cock was pushing against the fabric which contained it.

Easing more flesh into his mouth, Harry alternated licking and sucking, while his fingers travelled back and wriggled through to George's perineum. The ody under him jerked as George kicked off a shoe, then his socked foot moved up between Harry's legs.

Harry groaned onto his mouthful as George's foot pressed against his erection, that in turn making George arch his back up. He rubbed Harry's hair between his fingertips as his head began to move up and down. The heat was building, the lust crashing over everything; Harry knew exactly what to do to him. George tried to keep control of his foot, though, to keep rubbing and pressing against the trapped prick in Harry's pants.

Harry prodded a spitty finger into George's arse, as George stroked one of his fingers down, over Harry's forehead, onto the lightning scar. Jolts of heat and pleasure were racking George's body and, when one threw his head back, he saw the cage of Pygmy Puffs. The looked to have all come over to this side, to be watching with curiosity. He lowered his eyelids.

Harry lifted his head off and wet skin was slapped with cold air. He worked his hand up and down, though, and the sensation passed quickly. Harry licked at the ridge between George's balls, tightening them, coiling all the feelings in George's body tight in his belly.

Then he was coming, pushing out his breaths between clenched teeth, spurting onto Harry's hand and his own groin for a second, before Harry's hot, wet mouth was back over him, contracting - hugging him tight – with every swallow.

He barely allowed himself any recovery time before he was sitting up and reaching down to free Harry's cock. He enclosed it in both of his hands, one above the other, and tugged up a few times, twisting his hands in different directions, smearing the pre-come over the skin. Then Harry convulsed and hollered, “Fuck! George! Shit!” and George lowered his head to drink in the creamy fluid shooting out of his lover.

There was a brief hug, cleansing charms, Harry returned his glasses to his face and George checked the big clown clock on the wall.

“We'd better get back before they miss us,” he said.

“That was great,” Harry replied.

“Yeah,” George kissed Harry on the cheek, “Merry Christmas, mate!” He went over to the pile of gifts and started shrinking them, dividing them into two piles. “Now we'd better hurry up before someone comes looking for us and catches us at it.”

“We won't get caught,” Harry replied confidently, adjusting his robes. “We never get caught. Why would we get caught?”

George didn't reply, just loaded half the presents into his arms and herded him towards the fireplace. He patted his bum gently, before throwing in the powder, calling “The Burrow” and pushing Harry into the Floo. Harry stumbled on the way in and George couldn't help chuckling as the body of the man he loved disappeared. Harry had never really got used to this kind of transport anyway.

When he turned round to pick up his own pile of hastily chosen, carelessly gift-wrapped boxes, he caught sight of a cage full of agitated Pygmy Puffs. They seemed to look at him accusingly, though he couldn't see their eyes. More sombre now, he Flooed himself back to his parents' house and the family Christmas.

There was laughter as he landed on the hearth, and a rather sooty, choking Harry was being smacked on the back rather hard by Charlie.

“All right there, Harry?” George enquired, striding smoothly over to the tree to deposit his load. He waved his wand over them and they all expanded back to their original sizes.

“You pushed me, you bastard!” Harry coughed out.

Ginny, laughing as hard as anyone else, used her wand to clean Harry's expensive robes.

“Floo's easy, Dad,” Albus said, laughing. “I bet Louis can do it better than you can!”

Molly came in flapping and shooed them all to the dinner table. Only young James wasn't smiling. He slouched in stony-faced mortification, muttering to Lucy that his Dad was, “Such a bloody embarrassment.”


	36. What Did You Do in the War, Daddy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue.

_25th December, 2017_

There was Turkey dinner and there was gift exchanging, then they all settled in to the sitting room together for cups of tea with the sweet baked stuff that Molly had spent the last few weeks preparing. A huge teapot floated around the room, refilling cups as it saw necessary. Tiered cake stands hopped between the Weasleys' legs distributing slices of fruit cake, mince pies, snowflake-shaped cookies, and squidgy chocolate log.

Lazily, they all settled in to the warmth of the fire, and nobody felt the need to say very much. This was exactly it, perfectly right: family. And then Harry said one thing and, for a while, the world imploded. All he said was, "How many of those cookies have you had, James?"

In seconds, James had leapt from his slump on the floor, to standing, fists clenched and was screaming at his father, "Oh for God's sake! How is that any of your bloody business? Scorpius Malfoy's right!"

The adults looked confused, but the older children all gasped in the way people do when a faux pas has been committed. Clearly, they knew precisely what he was talking about.

Stunned, Harry just stared at his eldest son, not sure what he could have done that could possibly have been awful enough to provoke this reaction.

It was Ron who asked, bitterly, "So what's Malfoy's little brat been saying?"

"He says --" James began.

Half a dozen voices around the room tried to shush him, but he continued over them, "He says you think you're better than the rest of us and you're always trying to tell people what to do."

"I don't think --"

"He says you make out like you're some kind of hero, but you just got lucky. And then, you come on all like you don't want the attention and that but it doesn't stop you from going to all those awards dinners and getting medals and shaking hands with widows like meeting you's some sort of compensation."

"It's our duty," Ginny began. "Those functions raise morale. You have no idea just how important your father --"

"Malfoy's an obnoxious little brat," Molly cut in. "I don't know why you take him seriously, James. He's just trying to get some attention, make a name for himself."

"Nobody likes him," Dominique added.

There was a strange tension running through the Hogwarts students. Harry couldn't help waiting for the other shoe to drop. What else could Malfoy have told his son? He waited, frozen and pale.

In contrast, Ron was ruddy-faced and animated. "Like father like son, then. You can tell him from me that his father is a snide, cowardly, ungrateful, Death Eating bastard!"

"No, don't tell him --" Hermione tried to interject.

"I don't suppose he told you," Ron continued as though she hadn't spoken, " about how we saved his dad's worthless life, did he? Twice in one night?"

"No, but he did tell everyone that my dad slashed his up with some dark spell for no reason!" James glared at Harry, daring him to admit it.

Harry looked down, staring at his knuckles, his breath caught. He vaguely heard Ginny and Hermione leaping to his defence, Ron and George spluttering their indignation. Did they not remember? Had they ever known? It wasn't clear to him any more, this many years later, who knew what. He still had occasional _Sectumsempra_ nightmares.

Harry coughed, then said, as clearly as he could, "Yes, that's true."

A silence shimmered over the room. He tried to raise his gaze, but they all seemed to be watching him, so he looked back down.

"It was an accident," he added.

"For no reason?" Albus checked, in a small voice.

Harry shrugged. "He went for me first. But not with anything that bad. I didn't have a good enough reason."

"Yet you make out you're such a bloody hero!" James sneered.

"I told Scorpius he was talking bollocks," Rose said, her eyes wide.

"We bat-bogeyed him," Albus added. "Got a week's detentions."

Hermione sighed and, when she began speaking, Harry thought she was going to lecture her daughter and his son about school rules. Instead, what she said, very calmly, was, "I don't suppose young Malfoy told you about the way Draco very nearly killed Ron, through a mixture of evil intent and incompetence?" She patted the back of her husband's hand.

The room went quiet as she told them all about the poisoned mead, and about Katie Bell and the cursed necklace. She added in the time Draco had immobilised Harry on the train and stamped on his face. She left out the part where Ron had been under the influence of the chocolates laced with love-potion. Harry and Ron exchanged an amused glance at that point. It had been years since Harry had teased him about Romilda Vane, he must remember to do that again.

The family were calming, settling. They should have told their children more about the war, Harry decided. It had just been so lovely to have them grow up in this peace, to be without the worries that had blighted their own youths. Clearly, though, they didn't really understand anything much.

When Hermione had finished, Arthur asked Dominique, "So what else has Lucius Malfoy's grandson been saying about us? Any relative of that man has no place casting aspersions on anyone else."

The kids all turned together then, their heads seemed to snap at once in the same direction. Most of them looked away immediately, as though they hadn't really meant to look at Percy.

Percy flushed. Then he swallowed. Hard. "Go on," he said.

"We know it's rubbish, dad. It doesn't matter." Lucy went protectively over to her father and sat with her head on his knee.

"Tell me anyway," Percy insisted.

It was James who answered, with that resentful sneer back in his voice. "Scorpius Malfoy says that the Weasleys have got no reason to be so high and mighty about his family and their War record, when one of their own nearly took the Dark Mark himself." He looked pointedly at his uncle.

"I didn't." Percy's voice was feeble though.

"He reckons that if Voldemort had lived another week --"

"I can see why his family might think that," Percy interrupted. "I ... um ... I certainly never did anything to make, um ... well, that is, until the Battle of Hogwarts, I didn't do or say anything to make anyone .... in fact I rather encouraged certain people to assume that I might indeed, at some point ... but I never intended to. I would never have done that."

"You were onside when it mattered," George stated simply.

"Do you see my face?" Bill's authoritative voice garnered the attention of everyone. He pointed to his scarred cheeks. The youngsters were mesmerised. Nobody ever talked about Bill's disfigurement, or George's missing ear. Or the whitened skin in the shape of words on the back of Harry's hand. They must have noticed though. "Well," Bill continued, "Draco Malfoy let a werewolf into the school. That's why I have these marks on my face. He was young and frightened, I dare say, but that doesn't excuse what he did."

When Bill had completed the story of the repaired Vanishing Cabinet and its consequences, Molly said, "You know what I think we need? A nice winter walk to clear our heads. We've had more than enough discussion of the past. It doesn't do any good to dwell. I'm surprised at you children, taking notice of a rude young puppy like that Malfoy. Next term you can just ignore him!"

Arthur stood and rubbed his hands. "A walk! Splendid!" he declared. "The Mummies can all Floo back home for coats and mittens." Several of the 'Daddies' objected to this assumption so much that they immediately Apparated off to gather their family's warm clothing themselves.

The long walk through the frosty countryside did clear everyone's heads and raised their spirits enough to make it feel like Christmas again. When they got back to The Burrow, the coats were dumped in Bill's old room and Molly set about organising hot chocolate and yet more sweet treats.

Lily had fallen on the walk and soaked the bottom of her new cloak, so Harry hung it over a chair in Bill's room and cast some drying spells over it.

"Aha!"

He was already grinning before he turned, because he knew whose voice that was. George tipped his armful of clothing onto one of the beds. Both of them were thoroughly covered in brightly coloured wool items.

"It seems we are alone," George purred. He pointed his wand at the door.

"It does look that way."

They stood for a moment, admiring each other across the threadbare rug.

"I have a plan," George whispered.

Harry cocked an eyebrow. George began to stalk slowly and deliberately towards him.

"Is it a cunning and devious plan?" Harry asked.

"For once, no," George admitted. "I just hung around the back door and made sure I was the last to come up here."

Harry got his hands to George's waist as soon as it was close enough. They stood still and silent, cheek to cheek for a couple of minutes.

"You ok?" George asked.

Harry sank his head onto George's broad shoulder and made a non-committal noise.

"Malfoy's a shit. I'm not surprised he packed his brat off with a lot of crap about us to spread round. The kid's just trying to make a name for himself. It'll settle down soon enough."

"It's not the Malfoys that bother me," Harry muttered.

"James loves you. He's just testing you. He'll come round."

"He's so angry."

"Hormones. He'll get over it." George pushed back black-and-grey hair and kissed the part of Harry he could reach: just beside the lightening scar on his forehead.

Harry lifted his head. "How long d'you reckon we've got?"

"Long enough for me to give _you_ a Christmas present like the one you gave me." George leered. Then he slipped down to his knees, his hands running down Harry's body.

Harry moaned with gentle contentment as his robes were unfastened. He caressed George's neck, and hair, and ear. His cock was soft and curled up in his pants as George lovingly scooped it up and out into the air. It had started to harden before the warm wetness of George's mouth surrounded it all. Harry heard the thrub of blood racing round his body. And then he heard a loud, high-pitched scream.


	37. Harry Potter and the Terrible Accusation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**  
>  Warnings: Confrontation.

25th December, 2017

The scream was high-pitched and loud; it resonated around the room, stunning the two men in the corner. They gaped and looked around the room. After a long screech there came words: "Mu-u-ummy! Mu-uh-uh-ummee-ee-y!"

Harry found the source of the noise first. It was Louis, Bill and Fleur's little afterthought, still lying curled up on the pillow of one of the beds, still almost hidden by coats, but not napping any more as he must have been for the whole time they had been in there.

There were steps on the stairs. Harry managed to come to his senses enough to pull away from George and tuck his cock back in his pants.

Fleur's voice came through the door, as Louis - red in the face and clenched in the fist – screamed again.

"Tout est bien, mon petit, voici Maman!"

They heard her pull on the door. It didn't open, of course, and finally George moved. He unlocked the door with his wand and got hastily up off his knees.

Fleur gave them a quick quizzical look as she shot into the room, but her concentration was on her son. She pulled him to her chest. He clutched her and cried gulping sobs into her shoulder. "Ne pleur pas," she murmured. "Pourquoi tu pleur?"

Harry was just heading for the door, his heart hammering in his chest, when little Louis answered his mother: "He was eating it!"

Harry felt his skin heat. He didn't dare to look at anyone.

"What are you saying, mon petit?"

"He must have been dreaming," George said – too rough, too quick.

"His thingy."

Fleur frowned. She was looking up from her son's hot, blond head, when Bill arrived.

"He all right?" Bill asked.

There were other Weasleys behind him. He smiled easily at Harry, but Harry's face had frozen and he couldn't smile back.

"He was eating his thingy!" Louis insisted.

"Must have been a dream," George said again.

"No!" Louis looked up, looked straight at George and announced to the whole house, as loudly as he could, "You was eating Uncle Harry's thingy!" More quietly he added. "I saw it, Maman, Uncle George had Uncle Harry's thingy in his mouth."

Bill was staring at Harry, as he asked his son softly, "What do you mean by his 'thingy', Louis?"

Louis' little face screwed up with frustration at the grown-ups whi didn't understand anything. "His thingy!" he repeated. Then he pointed to the front of his own nappy and there was no mistaking what he meant when he added, "His wee-wee, his willy, his spout."

Bill pushed past Harry to reach his traumatised son. Beyond the doorway, what felt like several dozen eyes, stared accusation at him.

"It's bad to lie!" George growled behind him. "Louis! That's not what you saw!"

Louis was sobbing again, though, held tight by his parents. Harry felt so sick that he was sure it must show in his face. He'd never been able to lie very well and it didn't sound to him like George was doing it that well, either.

"Why would he make that up, George?" Bill asked flatly. "Where would he get an idea like that?"

"What the fuck's going on?" Ron asked angrily from the door.

"Nothing." Harry's voice cracked.

"Harry?" Ron stared at him. "What did Louis see?"

Harry could feel his mouth moving, but there were no words. Because it was exactly what it looked like. There were no excuses. They had been caught. People were swarming into the little bedroom, now. The noise level was rising. There was anger as well as confusion. And all Harry could think to do was to look at George, to look into his face.

He wanted a hug; hugging George always made him feel better. George could make it all ok. Only this time that wasn't going to work. They never got caught.

Out of the moving mass of red-heads, one face in particular was coming closer. Ginny. His wife. Her face was pale. She was staring at him.

Then she looked away, down, to where Lily was throwing herself at her mother. She was crying. Harry tried to reach out a comforting hand to pat her, but she flinched away from him.

Over all the other noises, someone was screaming. This time it wasn't a child, it was a woman, a screeching accusing harpy of a woman: Angelina. Shit! George's wife. And now she knew, they all knew. But what did the know about? One blowjob. Harry's mind suddenly crunched back into gear. That's right! They only knew about this one time, one tipsy christmas suck. They might still be able to get away with this.

Molly took over at that moment. She seemed to sweep up every child in the room, and herd them down the stairs, somehow drawing the adults into her wake – all except for Harry, Ginny, George and Angelina.

They could still make it out of this with their live intact, Harry was thinking. Ginny shut the door, silently staring at him. Then she clutched at her head and slid down the wall. Harry's head raced, formulating apologies and dreaming up mitigating circumstances, as he moved towards her. It was just this one time. It was a mistake.

Behind him, George and Angelina were screaming at each other.

"How do you think this makes me look?" she yelled.

"Oh yeah, that would be your prime concern!"

"No wonder you were so crap in the sack! You're a fucking poof!"

"I'm a what?"

"You suck cock, wanker!"

Ginny lifted her head. She looked into Harry's eyes. Her mouth opened, as though she were about to speak, but nothing happened. He squatted down in front of her.

"How many men have you been shagging behind my back? This why you're always too knackered?"

"No! I'm working my arse off for you and our kids, you stupid bitch!"

"Then how come we're still skint?"

"'Cos you spend it like it's water!"

Harry reached out and patted the back of Ginny's hand. "Sorry," he whispered.

"You sure you're not wasting it on rent boys?"

"You think I have to pay for it?"

"It'd be a waste of money if you were; you can't get it up half the time!"

"That's only with you, that's only because you're pig ugly you fat bitch!"

Ginny looked at Harry's hand on hers.

"I knew you weren't a real man! Out picking up boys when you should be --"

"I don't! It's only Harry! It's only ever been Harry!"

Ginny pulled her hand away.


	38. A Revelation and a Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**  
>  Warnings: Very strong language, mild violence.

_25th December, 2017_

Ginny hadn't said anything yet; Harry's guts were clenched, his teeth pressed together as he waited to see what she would say when she did. Behind them stood George and his wife – both red-faced and shaking, screaming out all the frustrations of their marriage. _It was one time. It was a mistake. I was drunk,_ Harry could still try that. Couldn't he? Only George was being so pig-headedly, stupidly honest to Angelina: for the first time in their partnership, Harry realised.

Ginny was trembling, breathing deeply. She seemed to be gathering herself. Her hand twitched towards her wand pocket. Was she really going to bat-bogey him? Didn't this go beyond her usual revenge? Would he just have to put up with a few minutes of an excruciatingly painful nose and then everything would be right again?

"I can't believe I've wasted my life on a pervert!" Angelina was yelling.

"Don't give me that! You got exactly what you wanted!"

"I got what?"

"Kids that look like they could be his!"

"Don't bring Fred into this!"

"I'm not the one who brought him into our relationship. He's the only reason why you're with me. If I lie on the right side at night you can even pretend --"

"He was a real man! He was ten times the man you are!"

"Don't tell me what Fred was!"

Angelina had moisture gathering in her eyes now. "I wish you'd died instead of him."

"I know you do. You've always made that perfectly clear. So do I, most of the time."

"He wouldn't have cheated on me."

"You stupid cow! Of course he would. He was never faithful to you. There was a string of girls --"

"I don't believe you."

"I shared the flat with him. There was a constant --"

"You're thinking of you and boys!" She screamed in vicious fury while the tears ran down her cheeks.

"I told you! It was only ever Harry."

Finally Ginny looked at him, took her hands from her face to stare, astonished, at her husband who squatted in front of her. "Even then?" she asked.

Harry didn't know what to do, what to say. He let his lower jaw flounder stupidly.

"Harry?" Her voice was sharper this time. "Were you and George ... doing things ..." she whispered the phrase so low that it was almost drowned beneath the continuing argument of the other couple in the room. "When Fred was still alive?" She stared at him. "Just bloody tell me! Tell me the truth for once."

Harry nodded slowly. So much for the _tipsy christmas suck_ defence.

Ginny turned away from him, swallowing as though she had bile in her mouth. She stood, swiftly, pulled out her wand and crossed the room to confront her brother.

George turned to look at her and his face changed. It was as though he had forgotten that she was there; more than that, it was as though he had forgotten for a moment that she existed at all and he suddenly remembered exactly what he had done to her.

"Ginny. I'm sorry."

"Don't give me that you bastard!" she snarled, pushing her wand into his face. "You knew he was mine. From the first moment I saw him, he was mine! By rights! What screwed up, twisted kind of hate do you have --"

"Ginny! It's not about you! I didn't do this to --"

"You fucked my boyfriend and you didn't think it was --"

"But he wasn't!"

Harry closed his eyes. He got as far as grabbing the doorknob. He didn't want to be in the room when George told the truth about this, about when it had all started and how long it had been going on.

"He wasn't my boyfriend?" Ginny turned, confused to look at Harry, caught him trying to escape. "Harry? Was it during the war? You wouldn't let me be with you, but you let --"

Harry shook his head.

George answered. "It was before that. Long before that. I'm sorry Ginny, but you're the one who stole my boyfriend, not the other way round."

There was a stunned silence. Even Angelina was speechless. She sank onto one of the coat-topped beds.

"I've been in love with Harry since we were schoolboys," George confessed into the room.

"Then why?" Ginny asked Harry, at the exact same moment that Angelina asked, "Our whole fucking relationship? It's just a cover-up?"

"The kids!" Ginny gasped.

Harry felt parts of his body going numb, large areas of his brain were shutting down: he couldn't cope with this.

Angelina was on her feet again, though, her voice was gaining in strength. "Don't you think you can just swan off with your lover boy and leave me to look after those kids on my own, George Weasley!"

"You're the one who wanted them."

"They're your kids! You'll do your bit! And I'm taking every fucking knut I can get!"

"I can't have two kids living in the flat over the shop with me. There's no room!"

"That's where you're going is it?"

Ginny shook off her horrified trance and began to yell into George's face, too: "You are dead to me! You are no longer my blood!"

"That bloody flat!" Angelina stepped closer as she shouted. "That's why you wouldn't sell it!"

"I'll make sure the rest of the family know what you've done, you cunt! You'll have to change your surname!" Ginny spat.

"That's where you've been shagging him." Angelina was pulling George's head round by the hair, forcing him to look at her.

Harry still had the urge to run away, but as he watched George being assailed by the two women, he also had a fierce need to protect him. He didn't know how to do that, though, without exposing himself. A witless voice in his head was still soothing, "It'll be all right. It'll all work out." He didn't see how it could, though.

There was a flash of red light and then George lurched forwards, grunting, folded around his groin. Ginny turned with a triumphant look on her face, to face Harry. Angelina stepped away from her collapsing husband.

"What did you ...?" Harry asked stupidly.

"He'll get over it," Ginny snapped. "He deserves it."

George dropped to the floor. Harry was poised to run over him. He took the first few steps. Only then George swore with such strength and clarity that he knew Ginny had been telling the truth: whatever it was she'd done to her brother, it was painful but temporary. Harry had made it a policy never to interfere between Weasleys.

"Now!" Ginny said, all calm and business-like. "I think this is salvageable."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Get up and stop making such a fuss!" Angelina demanded. "If you think I'm going down to break it to our kids on my own that Daddy's moving out cos he's a lying, cheating, arse-bandit, then you are so wrong, George Weasley." She pushed past Harry on her way to the door. She spat in his face as she went.

Harry didn't wipe off the saliva because he felt that it was the least he deserved.

"Obviously, you'll have to have no more contact with him," Ginny began, "and we'll have to find an effective way of silencing everyone. I think we can work out some arrangements, though."

"What?" Harry asked again, stupidly.

"George!" Angelina demanded from the open doorway.

"You're Harry Potter. We owe it to the wider Wizarding world, as well as to the children, to find a way through this. We're the First Couple, we have to set an example. Sweet Merlin! Can you imagine what the Prophet would do with this story if they got hold of it?"

"You'd keep me?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Under certain conditions, which we'll need to work through," Ginny agreed.

"Harry!" George was managing to sit on the floor now, though his skin was covered in a sheen of sweat.

"George! You come with me now!" Angelina barked.

"Harry!" Ginny ordered. "We have things to discuss."

George shuffled to standing. "Harry! Please! This is it. They all know. It doesn't matter any more."

"There are certain public obligations. Your credibility is in jeopardy." Ginny looked collected, surprisingly in control.

"This is our chance, Harry!" George begged.

"We're going down to find the kids, now, George. Then you need to pack."

Harry stared between his wife and his lover. He had no idea what to do. The Right Thing. Of course. But what was that?

"You deserve to be happy!" George insisted, though he was obeying his wife, moving towards her.

Harry didn't feel like he deserved anything good.

"The children need us, Harry," Ginny said.

"I love you," George whispered on his way out of the door.


	39. The Secrets Are Opened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

5.47pm 25th December, 2017

George Weasley followed his wife through the bright rooms of his childhood home. The raw skin of his groin smarted against shifting fabric as he walked. Ginny's hex had hurt like hell, but it hurt more that Harry had let her do it. He couldn't even think about the fact that she was forgiving Harry, keeping him; it hollowed him out. There were plenty of other things he could concentrate on, needed to concentrate on.

He passed members of his family, scared to look at them and see the hate and contempt they must feel for him. The Burrow was never this quiet, even when it was almost empty. Angelina twisted her head round to snarl at him.

"Oh, fuck Off!" he snapped back.

"Cock-sucking piece of shit," she hissed. "You've wasted my life."

"What's your obsession with the blow jobs? I wish I'd known how fixated you were when we were first together. I don't remember you offering many --"

"Just as well! Now I know where your dick had been. All those smug photos in the Prophet of him shaking hands with dignitaries. Good thing they didn't know he'd just pulled those hands out of your pants..." she stopped, though, because they had reached the kitchen and found their children. They stopped whispering, the bickering was over for now.

Molly had her grandchildren ranged round her, she was keeping them busy constructing sandwiches. Even little Louis was standing on a chair and pulling a big wooden spoon through a huge bowl of gloopy mayonnaise and cold turkey. He looked at George like he was the bogeyman. Molly gave him some chopped ham to add to the mixture, brought his attention back to the bowl. She was concentrating on the children, biting back her own reactions, but George could read her disappointment and shock in the lines round her mouth.

Freddie had his back to them. He and Lily were laying out smoked salmon slices on brown bread. Lily's back shook and she was still sniffing.

"Sandwiches! Great! Look at you with that big, grown-up knife, Roxy." Angelina was making a pretty good show of being jolly.

George did his best. Calm and normal. "You make a good tea team."

His son turned to look at him. His warm brown eyes were dry, but there was a hardness which had never been there before.

George took a deep breath. "Mind if we borrow Freddie and Roxy for a moment, Mum?"

Molly looked from him to Angelina, then patted Roxy's hand where it gripped the kitchen knife she'd been using on the cucumber.

"Just a quick word," Angelina added.

They stood, shoulder to shoulder, like a united front, like the dependable parents they were meant to be. Then Lily glared up at George, looking far too much like Ginny at that age, but with the red eyes and wobbling lip which Ginny had almost never had, and George knew what he had done to that little girl and he hated himself for it.

Molly called after Roxy and Freddie, "We won't have those candy canes until you get back!"

The candy canes always stayed on the tree until Twelfth Night. George had never known anyone to be allowed to eat one before the decorations came down. His mother was expecting his children to be inconsolable.

The four of them – his family – went into the sitting room. The adults who had been gathered there tactfully left. They didn't even seem to have been discussing events, just sitting in gloomy silence together. He looked at Angelina. He had been prepared to speak first. This was all his fault after all, why wouldn't he be the one to say what had to be said? When he opened his mouth, though, his throat dried up and his chest blocked.

"Shall we sit down?" she suggested. She sank onto the sofa and pulled Roxy onto her lap, patting the seat beside her for Freddie to join them.

He stayed standing, though, and so did George.

"What were you doing with Uncle Harry?" Freddie asked, looking at the carpet.

George sighed. "I was – look, Freddie, I love you, both of you: Freddie and Roxy, I love you both very much and I don't want either of you to ever doubt that."

"That's right," Angelina began. "Your Daddy and I, we both love you two --"

"Are you splitting up?" Freddie asked.

The adults looked at each other. Perhaps they should have discussed how they were going to say this. They'd always just known, though, when it came to the children.

"Yes," said George. "It's my fault. I'm going to move out of our home." It hit him, then, all the missed messy mornings and noisy bedtimes that lay ahead of him. He started to choke up.

Luckily that's when Angelina took over. "You'll still see your Dad, though. At weekends. And other times."

Roxy snuggled into her mother. She rubbed the back of her hand over her nose. "Where you going Dad?"

"The shop. I'll live there."

"Inside the joke shop?" Freddie asked incredulously. Roxy looked kind of impressed, though.

"There's a flat over it," George explained. "I used to live there. Just going back. You can stay over any time." He looked at Angelina warily. "I mean, any time when your Mum says it's ok."

Roxy climbed down and hurtled to her father. It took him a moment to realise what she was doing, to hug back; he didn't deserve her love. "I'll miss you, Daddy," she said.

At the same moment, though, Freddie asked again, "What did you do with Uncle Harry?"

He looked at George, then, looked right into his eyes, over the top of his sister's braided head. George looked right back. He didn't know what to say. There was a frozen pause.

"They were kissing," Angelina said eventually. She was trying to soften her voice, but the choked fury was clearly there, nobody could miss it.

Roxy lifted her head. "Do you love Uncle Harry instead of Mummy now?" she asked. She sobbed twice. "Is he going to live in the joke shop with you?"

George felt his face collapsing. He wanted to be strong for his children, couldn't bear for them to see him crying. He sank his head onto the top of hers and squeezed her tight to him as her body convulsed with weeping. He didn't answer, he couldn't answer, his throat had closed over and there was nothing he could say anyway.


	40. A Conversation With A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years. Canon compliant including the epilogue – it's just that some things were kept secret even from JKR! GeW/HP, GiW/HP, RW/HG, GeW/AJ.

_5.47pm 25th December, 2017_

Ginny had her wand out and she was pointing it at Harry.

"Certain conditions," she said. "A binding contract."

Harry was still dazed, blinded by the sensation of his life coming apart in his hands. He looked back at his wife without comprehension.

"Unbreakable oath," she said, very slowly and clearly.

He swallowed and nodded, slid onto the floor, where he sat with his head bowed as he tried to concentrate on what she was saying.

"Obviously, you can't see George again. Keep temptation out of your way. You won't be able to have sexual relations with anyone other than me. I want you to spend more time at home and less at that Creature charity. I'm sure Hermione will be quite happy to run things on her own --"

"Never see George. Not ever even see him?"

"Of course. And you're not making the best of the children's opportunities. We need to raise your profile. That advisory post at the Ministry: if we get Percy to approach the Minister then I'm sure it will be offered again --"

"I don't want to work for the Ministry. The charity ... Not see George?"

"Pay attention, Harry. You're about to make an Unbreakable oath, it would be a good idea if you knew what you you were agreeing to. Stop avoiding the press, too. You'll have to give whatever interviews I arrange for you."

Never see George again? Never touch him, or talk to him. Never hold that broad frame? Harry remembered George's lips, his lips could feel their texture, taste them.

"And we should move to a bigger house --"

"I can't. Ginny. I'm sorry," he whispered.

Her controlled expression became one of intense, venomous fury. "Harry Potter! Are you forgetting what you've done to me? You've humiliated yourself and your children. This is the only rescue package I'm going to offer you."

Tears pricked at Harry's eyeballs and his nose filled. "I can't."

"Either you take this oath on the conditions I'm laying out, or – so help me – you will never see your children again. Do you understand me?"

"You can't do that!"

"Oh yes, I can. And I'll do it with the full backing of the law when everyone finds out what a pervert you are! Not safe to be around children."

"You can't! The kids won't!"

"Oh by the time I've finished talking to them, they won't want anything to do with you."

"What were your conditions again?"

Ginny tutted and started counting off points on her fingers, "You reduce your hours at that bloody charity, you take the advisory post at the Ministry, never see my treacherous brother again, I take over management of your public relations --"

Harry stood and ran his fingers through his hair. George. He remembered the last time they'd ended their affair: the empty desperation, the struggle to wade through the fog of depression that had coloured each day, that frantic overwhelming fear that night on the heath ... He had been able to see him, then. He'd had to watch him flirting with Angelina, but at least he'd heard that voice, seen the freckles on his cheek and the scorched skin on the side of his head. Never see George again?

Or lose his children. Little Lily's hand held in his, Albus' laughter, even James' sulks. No more. Never to have the chance to mend that rift that had opened out between him and his eldest son – the boy he'd read with and ridden brooms with.

It was all impossible. Ginny was still talking, on and on, so sure that she was about to get her own way. He thought he could allow her to run his life, to force him to be the public figure she'd always wanted him to be. He wouldn't care very much, it wouldn't matter what he did without George to complain to afterwards, to make it all feel better.

George or the children. He stood up. It was impossible. Ginny stopped talking.

"I have to think," he muttered. "Fresh air." He stumbled out of the bedroom full of coats.

Lily was in the kitchen with Molly and Louis. She was sniffling. When she saw her father, she turned away, burying her face in a T-towel. Louis started to whimper and Molly pressed his face into her chest. Harry backed away.

"You keep away from my boy," Bill growled behind him.

Harry stumbled out into the back yard. He felt so very alone. He stood under the clear, starry sky, feeling as much an orphan as he ever had. If he lost Ginny then he would lose his family. Who would be left? Teddy? Luna? He wished he hadn't lost touch with Seamus and Dean, but their openness had frightened him. Would Ron side with Ginny? She had promised to turn her whole family against him.

He should have protected George from her, should have told him he loved him too. Was it too late? Had he lost even George? If Harry gave up his children and George took him in, would it be just the two of them, excommunicated from all wizarding society?

"What's going on, Harry?"

He hadn't heard Hermione approaching, but once he realised that she was there, he realised also that he was on the far side of the garden and he was sobbing uncontrollably.

He shook his head, unable to speak.

She took a tissue from her pocket and handed it to him. His hand was shaking too much to take it. So, she wiped at his face and murmured, "Harry, what's the matter? What's going on? Oh, you silly, silly boy. What have you done?"

His whole body shook with weeping and she took him in her arms, held him with his head on her shoulder until he stopped crying enough to speak. She pulled a tiny cup from her sleeve, tapped it to make it return to full size and then cast _Aguamenti_ to fill it. The cold of the water travelling down his chest brought him some clarity.

"I don't know what to do, Hermione." Hermione was the one who always knew everything.

"Harry, what's going on? I've heard some things, but I want you to tell me. I want your truth."

They sat down on the cold grass together. "Come on," Hermione said. "Words of one syllable, starting from the beginning. Make me understand."

Harry sniffled, then he muttered, "I had an affair with George."

"Well." Hermione swallowed and nodded. Her eyes were wide. "That's true then?" She looked at her hands for a minute, as best she could in the dark. "Well," she said again. "I'm your best friend, I see you nearly every day, and I'd never suspected that one. George. Well." She took a deep breath. "Since when?"

"Since school. Since before Ginny."

Hermione's head shot round. The dark shape of her mouth was a perfect circle and Harry knew, though he couldn't see them properly, that her bushy eyebrows would be close to her hairline. He almost laughed.

"Well?" he asked. "Weren't you going to say, 'Well'?"

"No, I'm fucking speechless!" she spluttered. "Before Ginny? All this time?"

"Most of the time," Harry admitted.

"Why?"

He sniffed. "I love him."

"I meant why marry Ginny, but that's good to know."

"I was supposed to. It was expected. You remember how it was after the war."

"That's not good enough, Harry."

"I wanted a family, 'Mione. Is that too much? I'd never had one and I wanted one. I wanted some children and a wife and to make what everybody else got to grow up with!" He was choking up again.

"Then why keep seeing George?"

"Because he's – I can't – I totally ..." He took a deep breath. "I'm a mess without him, Hermione. We love each other."

She shook her head. "There's a Muggle expression you might remember, Harry. About having your cake and eating it. That's what you've been doing and it can't be done."

"I don't remember the saying, Hermione. But then there wasn't much cake for me in my Muggle childhood. I just got to watch Dudley eating it." He paused. "I wanted to be part of this," he indicated the lit windows of The Burrow, just a few feet away from them. "This was the family I wanted, that I want. Well. You know. You married into it, too."

He could just see Hermione's head shaking. "I fell for Ron, Harry. I needed him to notice me, to touch me. I had to spend all my time with him, I never wanted to lose him out of my life. Without him, I was angry and sad and bitter. Even now, all he has to do is touch my arm and all the frustrations and disappointments of the day seep away. I married Ron because we completed each other, because his existence makes my chest go warm. Seeing him sleeping, hearing his terrible jokes, holding his hand – even when he's being an idiot he makes me smile.

"I married him and his family was just there, usually supportive and sometimes obstructive, but it came attached to him. Not the other way round. And our own family, our home, our children, they all grew out of that love, the affection, the need we have for each other. You fall for the person and that creates the family. That's the right way round."

Harry was going through her words in his head.

"Did you ever feel that way about Ginny?" Hermione asked.

"A little bit." Harry sighed.

"That's not enough. That's not fair on her or the children. Or you." She took hold of Harry's hand.

"George, though," he said quietly. "That's how I've felt about George since ... since he held my hand in the Gryffindor Common Room after ..." He lifted his hand, the one Hermione was holding, and brought them both across his body so he could feel the back of his other hand, run his fingers over the Blood Quill scars. I Must Not Tell Lies. "Everything you've said about Ron, that's how I feel about George. That's the truth."

"You should have been with him, then, not with her."

Harry nodded. "I don't want to live with her any more."

"Then don't."

"My children, Hermione. I can't lose them. She says I'll never see them again." He coughed out a sob. "I can't do this, Hermione. I can't make this choice. You always know everything, tell me what to do."

"I can't give you the answers this time, Harry."  



	41. The Man Who Left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to leave it so long on a cliff-hanger. School holidays, visits to relatives, deadlines and other stuff all happened. But here it is now! I hope you like it.  
>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.**  
> 

_6.27pm 25th December, 2017_

The air was thick with throat-drying tension, that Christmas night at The Burrow. Fleur soothed her agitated young son with a warm bath; Lily sobbed uncontrollably into her mother's lap; Arthur tried to be supportive by helping Molly with the washing up, but he just got in the way; Percy and Ron stood side by side in front of the dining room fireplace, staring into its flames, not knowing what to say.

George and Angelina agreed that he would take their children ice skating the next Saturday, and Head Floo every tea time until then. He hugged them both and Apparated home to pack a suitcase. Except, of course, that it wasn't his home any more and he would have to stop calling it that.

Albus approached his mother on the sofa where she was stroking Lily's hair and asked when they were going home. He wanted to play on his new harp. He wanted to think about fingering and tuning and long, sweeping notes so that he could forget about everything and everyone else.

"I'm just waiting for your father to finalise something with me," she said. "Then we can all go home together."

In the garden, in the dark, sat Harry and Hermione, staring silently up at the stars.

"I don't see how she can do it," Hermione said suddenly.

"She says that by the time she's finished with them, the kids won't want anything to do with me. She's their mother. And I'm the one who's ... I don't deserve ..."

"Stop wallowing in self-pity and mentally flagellating! They are individuals who are quite capable of thinking for themselves."

"Will that help? They'll think for themselves that their Dad spent most of his life cheating on their Mum with her brother and think for themselves that I'm not worth knowing."

Hermione sighed. "Yes. That is what you did." She paused. "Exactly that. It's a terrible thing, but," she added quickly, "your relationship with them is a relationship in its own right. It's not mediated through Ginny. Trust them to make decisions about how they feel about you." She tried to watch her best friend's expression, but it was too dark and it seemed to suit his mood. "They won't forgive you just because you give in to her blackmail. It might make them respect you even less."

Harry sighed. "You're saying that they hate me anyway, so I might as well --"

Hermione stood. "No. That is not what I said. Are you determined to be miserable?"

"No," Harry replied in a sulky voice. "Finding it difficult to be anything else at the moment."

"Stop viewing this as a choice between your children and George. The choice is Ginny or George. Make a decision and start acting. That always was more your forte."

Harry stood too. "Do something. Don't sit around moping. That what you're saying?"

"Yeah," she teased, "you're trying to do thinking and that's my area."

They chuckled weakly.

"You'd better go and find Ron. He won't handle this well. Tell him I ... oh, I don't know. She's his sister. I'll understand if he feels he has to --"

"We're not in the playground. Nobody needs to choose a side, Harry. I'll tell him you were worried about him." She walked back to the house.

George would be at the flat above the shop. That's what he'd said. If he had to do something then there really was only one thing Harry _could_ do. The Floo was in the house, so he wasn't too far behind Hermione, his frost-soaked trousers chafing at his knees and arse as he crossed the lawn.

"I really don't think you want to go in there."

Harry was nearly at the back door when the deep voice came out of the shadows.

"What?" he asked, startled.

The voice was coming from behind the wood pile. "If you care about your safety, then that would be a bad place to be."

"Why?" Harry felt scared.

But then there was a laugh and Harry realised that it was Charlie who was speaking and that he wasn't threatening him, just warning him. He cast a _Lumos_ and the dragon keeper walked into the pool of light, saying, "Because Bill's baying for the blood of the men who traumatised his son." Charlie laughed again. "Poor Louis's convinced that someone's going to bite of his todger! He'll have nightmares for years."

Harry ran his hands through his hair. Poor little mite. He didn't think that was funny, he thought it was dreadful. He felt sick with guilt.

"Oh, come on. He'll get over it. They all will." Charlie chuckled again. "Just not yet." He shook his head and looked Harry up and down. "Never would have thought it."

"Thought what?" Harry demanded tensely.

"All these years a shirt-lifter and you never had the good taste to make a move on the _good-looking_ Weasley brother." He guffawed again.

"It's not funny."

This voice came from behind Charlie. It was the voice of a young man, one that Harry knew very well indeed. He hadn't known he was out here, but he should have guessed it: wherever Charlie went, James followed.

Harry looked towards the direction the voice came from, but couldn't see his son. "I'm so sorry," he said.

"Why are you going inside?" James asked.

"The Floo," Harry replied simply.

"You'd be better off Apparating," Charlie remarked. "Any splinching would be preferable to what Bill's planning for you two."

"Where are you going to be living?" James asked. He took one step closer, round the neatly stacked logs. Harry could see the vaguest outline of his features in the edge of the wandlight.

"There's a flat above the shop." Harry was grateful. James seemed to know already that Harry was going to leave Ginny and live with George – even though Harry had only just worked that out himself. They'd just by-passed a huge and painful conversation.

"Diagon Alley," James said. "Well, she can't stop me from going shopping."

"Any time. You'll always be welcome." Harry felt the warnings of weeping welling in him, but unlike the earlier pricking of his eyeballs and filling of his nose, these were happy, grateful tears.

"James is planning to come and stay with me in the Easter holidays," Charlie said. "Check out the reserve. No reason why you shouldn't happen to be in Romania, too."

"Thanks," Harry said through a strange lump in his throat.

"It'll be fine," James said. "I'll talk to Al at school where she can't interfere. It'll all work out."

"Now you'd better Apparate the fuck out of here while you've still got legs!" Charlie advised.

"See you!" James said.

"See you," Harry agreed and then spun on the spot and disappeared.


	42. Diagon Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.  
> **  
>  Warnings: Mankissing, but nothing explicit. Wait until next time.  
> Any reader who is familiar with _Skins UK_ may spot a reference.

_7.12pm 25th December, 2017_

George was in the flat. It was basically just a stock cupboard with a bed and a bathroom in it. It had seemed so big, so full of freedom when he had lived there with Fred. It hadn't felt small all those times he'd been up here with Harry. Now it did, now that he was going to have to live here. He must have got used to that semi-detached which Angelina had made him buy, where she would be living with their kids now. It had crept up on him, this reliance on comfort and space.

He would have to make the most of it. Those piles of stored products were going to need to be sorted out. He sat heavily on the bed. He would do it in a minute. When he had the energy. He should unpack, too. He pointed his wand in the direction of his trunk and it sprang open. He frowned at it. He couldn't remember what he'd thrown into it. His mind had been all over the place and he had been hurrying, not wanting to face the kids again, aiming to be gone before they got back. There seemed to be a vase in the trunk. Why would he need that? He couldn't remember if he had put underwear in. His heart sank.

And then he smiled. A vase? How stupid was he? He laughed out loud. His new life was starting out in a cupboard with no chairs or soap or underwear – but at least he would have somewhere to put the flowers which nobody was going to buy him.

He lay back and tried to think through what this new life was going to be like. He didn't know whether he would be living here on his own, or whether he would have to squeeze another person into this tiny flat. He hoped he would. He didn't dare to hope that he would. Safer to expect nothing.

Maybe Harry would turn up on his doorstep with his own trunk or bag, all ready to move in. Or maybe he would turn up empty-handed to explain that he had decided to stay with Ginny. Or perhaps she would ensure that George never saw Harry again, never even got that apologetic explanation. He really ought to transfigure something into a chest of drawers so that he had something to unpack into, George thought, feeling very tired and closing his eyes.

The alleyway behind Weasley's Wizard Wheezes appeared around Harry. He stood looking at the back door as he had done many times before. He raised his hand to knock. Then he lowered it again.

He had told James that he was going to be living here, but that was presumptuous, he realised now. He hadn't been invited. Would George want him here? He had stood back and let Ginny hex him. That was the moment when he should have stood up and declared his love, protected his lover.

Before that. Long before that. From the beginning he should have been proud of loving George, not hidden it away. There had been plenty of times when he should not have lied. All those years. He had told himself that he had acted for others. Now they all knew and the sky was still above him, all was still well. How much difference had the revelation of his suffocating secret made?

Not everyone knew; that wasn't true. They would do, though. It would be Front Page News. Harry's gut clenched. He knew he could be brave about some things, was famous for his bravery, but gossip made him such a coward.

His children. He suddenly saw it: owls carrying the copies of the Prophet into the Great Hall. His sons would have to cope with that. There was another week of the Christmas holiday left. Perhaps they would have to travel up to school on a Hogwarts Express full of whispering children who all knew already that their father had 'run off with' their uncle, with whom he had been having an affair for decades. Poor James. Poor Albus. There was nothing he could do to protect them now.

He wanted a hug from George. It was the only thing which could make him feel better. Harry raised his fist again and knocked on the door.

It took a while for George to answe. When he did so, he began to smile, and then he looked at the cobbles by Harry's feet and the smile faded. His face became a protective mask and he stepped back, warily.

A long pause was finally broken by Harry who said, "I've left Ginny."

"Oh." George didn't know whether it was safe to hope yet. "Do you want to come in?"

"If that's ok."

"Where are you staying? I mean ... here?" George held his breath.

"I'd like that," Harry replied carefully.

"Fuck!" George yelped out. His grin split his face. "So would I mate. Thank fuck! At last."

He stepped back and Harry came through the door. George kicked it shut and pulled Harry into an embrace in one movement.

"I'm so sorry," Harry mumbled into his shoulder.

George shushed him. They stood for many minutes. Then George said, "You can borrow some of my underwear. If I remembered to pack any."

Harry laughed. He tilted his head back to look into George's face and said, "I hear nobody wears pants in London anyway."

George took hold of his lover's hand and dragged him up the stairs. "I shall keep you as my sex slave and you will never be allowed to wear any clothes at all!" he announced.

Harry laughed. "Great plan!"

They stumbled into the flat, grinning. George looked at the place again. It looked even smaller and messier than it had when he had arrived alone earlier. "I'm sorry about the state of it," he said.

"I love it!" Harry declared. "It's got you in it. And anyway," he kissed George's cheek, "I've had all the best sex of my life up here."

Their mouths met in a long, deep, passionate kiss. When it ended George said, "What about the hospital lavs?"

"Yeah," Harry conceded. "That was good too."

They smiled at each other and George leaned closer, ready to kiss again.

Harry stopped him by saying, "Should have done this then. Should have moved in together at the end of the war. I never should have married Ginny."

George shrugged. "Let's not do this now, eh? Could-would-should. Doesn't matter. Tonight let's just ..." He closed the space and resumed the kiss. His hand slipped under Harry's robes up his leg. He gripped the top of Harry's thigh hard.

Harry groaned out and his hips pushed forward, onto George, squeezing their bodies together. His hands flew to George's buttons, fumbling and slipping in his haste to undo them. George ground back against him.

George pulled his face away and took in a long, gasping breath. Then he said, "Slow down!"

"Can't," Harry muttered, shaking with need, rutting against George's leg, biting at his neck.

"Yes!" George stepped back. "We've got time. For the first time. We've got all night. It's just us, nobody can interrupt, nobody to rush back to. You, me, the bed and the whole night."

"Ok," Harry agreed breathlessly. "Slow tonight." He took a step closer to his lover. "But it's still evening. I want to finish what we were starting before --"

"Before we scarred a young mind."

"Not thinking about Louis now. He's not here. Nobody's here. Even your creepy Pygmy Puffs are safely downstairs." Harry wrapped a hand around George's muscular upper arm and yanked him back, before dropping to his knees and lifting George's robes.


	43. All Was Well

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Weasley's love for Harry Potter over many years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is at last: the final chapter. Well, this has been going on for a long time. I'm sorry for the wait for this chapter. I couldn't quite bring myself to end it. It has to be done though and – although they probably don't deserve it – I'm giving them a (fairly) happy ending. I hope it satisfies everyone. I'm not going to tie up all the loose ends, I like to leave something to my readers' imaginations.  
>  **All things relating to Harry Potter remain the intellectual and legal property of JK Rowling.  
> **  
>  Warnings: Explicit mansex situations, swearing.  
> 

_7.45pm 25th December, 2017_

"The bed," George muttered, pulling Harry to his feet.

"You were afraid. Do you remember? The bed in the Head Boy's room." Harry held George's gaze and slipped to the floor again.

George ran his fingers into Harry's thinning, greying, black messy hair. "You were a child. We're grown-ups now – two middle-aged men whose knees will thank them for using the bed." He grinned, "Two middle-aged men who live together. We get to wake up together."

"I know," Harry said softly, grinning back, then, suddenly, pushing his face into George's groin and humming. As George moaned and closed his eyes, insensible in the face of the jolts of pleasure running through him, Harry resumed unfastening his robes.

"So fucking wilful!" George groaned.

Harry didn't answer in words, just ran his tongue over the tip of George's rapidly hardening cock. He manoeuvred his fingers into George's underwear and stroked his perineum, while licking all over his cock. George's fingers dug into his attacker's scalp and his thighs started to shake.

Grasping George's hip with his free hand, Harry eased him down to his knees. He sucked cock into his mouth, running the salt-taste of pre-come round his mouth, easing it further and further back, swallowing round its girth. George went silent, barely breathing even. Harry didn't have to look up to know that his eyes would be closed.

He moistened a free finger and swapped hands, to trace firm patterns over the places between George's sac and his hole. The other hand juggled and squeezed his balls, running his nails between the coarse hairs whose colour he dreamed of frequently. His head moved up and down, pulling pleasure and oblivion out of the man he loved: wordlessly saying 'sorry' and 'I love you' and 'stay with me'.

The elastic waistband of George's underpants cut into Harry's wrists, his jaw ached and his knees were pressed into the gritty carpet. He knew these things, but they didn't affect him. All he cared about was the scent and texture of his lover, the man that he had loved so long. His own frustrated cock, constrained by uncomfortable fabric, was ignorable. He didn't want his hands on himself, only on George.

He pushed his finger back, onto the puckered skin he had broached so often, pressed in and, with that familiar, adorable hiccup, his mouth was filled with hot, sticky liquid and he was swallowing, swallowing, swallowing to stop himself from choking.

George lay back on his heels and Harry's head moved with him. They panted into the silence for a few minutes. Then George eased Harry off him and, shifting to sitting, pulled him up for a kiss.

"That a housewarming gift?" he murmured after.

"Yeah." Harry took one of the big, freckled hands off his shoulders and shoved it between his own thighs. "Where's mine?"

"Bed," George said firmly. "And take your sodding clothes off. I didn't wreck two homes just to have my sex slave wandering around our lust pad fully dressed."

Harry stood, only wincing slightly at the stretch to his shoulders as he did so. He wiggled enticingly and started a slow strip, slinking backwards to the bedroom. George sat and watched him for a moment, marvelling at the dark-haired body which was being revealed, and loving the casual dropping of clothes over the floor. Nobody else was going to find them and it wouldn't even matter if they did. Not now.

Then he stood up, unbending his reluctant knees, and followed Harry to where he lay, naked and erect, flat out on the bed they were going to have to _engorge_ for sleeping in tonight.

"Our bed," George said out loud.

Harry thrust up his hips invitingly. With a chuckle, George sat down beside him. He looked into his eyes and put a fingertip to his cheek. Simultaneously, his right hand grasped Harry's cock: so hot, so firm, and just exactly the shape George always wanted to have in his palm. Harry swallowed and closed his eyes. George leaned down and brought their mouths together.

Stroke one – "Fuck, yes, George, oh Merlin!"

Stroke two - "Shit shit shit shit shit shit."

Stroke three – "That's it, that's the ... bloody hell ... it's all ... I'm gonna ..."

Stroke four – "I love you, I love you, I love you so much!"

The fifth stroke elicited only a feral scream and jets of burning hot come splashing onto the back of George's hand. He continued for a few, gradually slowing strokes.

Then he wasn't sure whether Harry was actually asleep or just recovering. He stripped off and lay down next to him, rolling into him and holding on so that he didn't fall off the edge of the bed.

"It's going to be ok," Harry said, unexpectedly clearly beside him. His chest rose and fell under George's arm. "I mean, actually, that it's going to be brilliant. But also, it's going to be ok."

"It'll be difficult. Some things. The children."

"Ginny says I can't see them."

George sat up and stared at Harry's serene face, shocked.

"I will, though," Harry insisted. "It's not up to her. I've talked to James."

"I'm really sorry."

"Not your fault."

"Is."

They looked at each other seriously.

Harry shrugged. "All right. A bit. Mine mostly. And I'm going to sort it. I'm not going to lose my kids, she can't do that."

"Right." George wasn't sleepy any more. He wandered into the kitchen. It was cramped and there was no food. "Want a cup of tea?" he called out.

"Yeah."

"Need to go shopping," George muttered. "I wonder where will be open on Boxing Day." Christmas dinner seemed a very long time ago.

While the kettle boiled, he wandered over to the front window, to look out over Diagon Alley. There was nobody out there. This only happened a couple of times a year. Normally, the crowds thronged down it, obscuring the dust and litter, the worn cobbles. He'd enjoyed the semi's view of parkland, though he'd never admitted it to himself at the time. It had always been Angie's place. Well, now it really was.

A naked body pressed against his back: a hard-chested, hairy naked body. Harry hugged him and they both looked out onto the street.

"I always wanted to live here. As soon as I'd been shown it," Harry said softly into his ear, warm breath against his lobe.

"Well, now you do."

"Everything I want is here." Harry turned George round in his hold, stretched up onto tip toes and kissed him. "We'll deal with everything else as we have to. We've got each other."

Things would have to be dealt with a little sooner than anticipated, because as George turned round, the street suddenly stopped being empty. A junior photographer from the Prophet just happened to be walking back to his flat above the Owl Office, after spending Christmas with his brother. He just happened to look up as he walked past Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and he happened to be gifted the scoop which would make his career.

 

 

THE END


End file.
